Raking

I kneel in front of the wheelbarrow -

filling my fists with acorns.

It is a prayer, this rubble cradled in my palms -

cracked shells, holding black emptiness,

and twisted bits of dead moss.

Light billows through the sails

of half-grown grass blades -

setting them into motion

until the sun disappears, and they are stranded

in still, magical dusk.

I notice the paper gloves

covering closed daffodils;

prehistoric gull sounds;

the woody acorn caps -

clattering together in my hand -

and suddenly, in a flash -

I understand.

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