This week, I raked summer shade
into piles, heaps of leaves assembled,
the closure of a season.
This week, two died younger
than me, a friend of a friend another,
the father of my daughter’s friend.
Perhaps, this is aging, dropping
people like leaves raked
into piles of passage, reminding us,
testimonies of warm,
shaded summers when
we sat outside in laughter, not thinking
about our coming fall, of our falling leaves
giving way to our winter.
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