last ball of autumn

Individual leaves are dancing
on a carpet of others
lying still.

I wonder if
they take turns

or if the dancers
and the carpet just

both love what they're
doing? I wouldn't mind

being danced upon
by those twirling
sylphlike shapes,

which then fall back
like crowdsurfers
into a multitude's embrace, but

I'd kind of love

to see everyone get up
at once, go nuts, really rock
this place

in wild melee
of colors flying,
twirling, giving everything
they've got to give,
and living
every motion and
emotion they can make,
every moment they can take,

before I've got to rake.