My rake collects the last of Autumn’s belongings.
Cold sweat lines my forehead as I place her bags on the street.
All of this to prepare for Winter’s arrival.
The trees stand bare, witnesses to her leaving.
The cold wind whispers goodbye.
Soon, frost will move in, cold and uninvited.
And I will wait, rake in hand,
for Winter to leave.
When he goes,
the ground will soften,
and budding life will break through the thaw.
Spring will return,
and I’ll greet her with open arms.
