A Poem by Jill Bialosky: 'Cleanup'

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A poem for Sunday They wont stop. Leaves, slick, wet Curled around shrubs, blanketing the funeral garden where ravens rest. Why am I married to longing & lament? Id like to slap the face of my unseemly devotion. Wake up. Dont be afraid. Wag your beauty like a dirty dog. Trees shed their pious costumes. Wind unfurls & as if in ecstasy more scatter to mock my loyalty. Yes, cleanups messy, imperfect, a disaster. My limbs hurt. My back aches. One minute its dark, sun hiding behind maples bark; the next the light is fixed, like a shattered heart.