Leaf Burning Poem by michael hogan

Raking them in great piles to jump in
then rake up again under the exasperated eye
of someone's father or grandfather with an Old Gold or Camel
in the corner of his mouth until at last
the wheel-barrowing out to curb or backyard ash pit
where gold maple and red oak already dried to paper thinness
whooshed in a fire brief and admonitory
as our own father's morning cough
while we ate crisp Red Delicious and talked football
and wind swept down over naked trees
and we rubbed our hands together feeling
the greasy tar of burnt leaves on our skin
and felt but could not mention
the one leaf clinging to the condemned elm
and the lingering sad smoke.