Paid to rob
our only harvest,
the world screams.
Waves of autumn
like old rolled rugs
riddle the gutter.
Garnetting and carding,
scoring and scaring,
Her season’s quilt.
The acorns’ pillows,
walnuts mattress,
disappear like bulky items.
Pecan hulls pierce my feet.
Squirrels’ scorn and deer leer,
a lawn prepared for Holiday Cheer.
“You should publish this” 