Grownup Autumns Poem by Mark Heathcote

The leaves that fall, that sweep on through the hall
landing on your doorsteps, solidified.
There aren't that many, but still several.
It's -annoying when they are blown inside.
But it's great when you're a small child, knee-deep
wading through them, kicking them to the sky,
scooping them up in armfuls with a leap
throwing them air-bound like a dragonfly—
with a thousand wings, they hover cloud-like,
suspend a second, and fall, tumbling down
with an upside-down frown. What's to dislike
about this autumn's seasonal ball gown?
'Guess I am older; get me a yard brush...
I've no time for all this senseless—mush.'