Your rake scratching half-thawed ground

shapes a music too subtle

to notate onto a stave.

Vaughn Williams might have puzzled it out,

but for me it’s a throat-clearing

too rough with obscure emotions

to dilute with the public gaze.

The brown earth looks slightly ashamed,

as if caught in the act of something.

Last fall’s leaves form little heaps

you rake onto a tarp to drag

and dump in the fringe of forest.

You work so hard to forget yourself.

I’d join you if I thought I could coax

such compelling sounds from raking

but I’m afraid of the cacophony

I’d probably generate, a clash

of art and dubious motive.

 William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024). His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals.