Funeral Pyre

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
When we grow up we forget the little pleasures life had once offered off.

Submitted: January 18, 2007

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Submitted: January 18, 2007




Funeral Pyre



Leaves form a patchwork quilt of yellows, reds,

And browns, in my backyard.  With rake in hand

My father tears through nature's heirloom.  Threads

Unravel as he rakes the leaves and crams


Them in a pile.  I run for this pillow

And jump on it.  The aroma of old

Book pages greets me and I try to burrow

In, but the comforting remnants are sewed


No longer.  Now, Twenty years later, I

Face my backyard, with rake in hand, and split

Apart the seams.  "Goddamn Mess," I mutter


As I crush leaves that once held my archive.

Hours later a mound is formed and I shout,

"About Time," and light the funeral pyre.

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