This November Sawyer stands 
in a shower of leaves, first 
the ones falling, then those 
the blower sprays her with. Defiant, 
joyful, unafraid of noise 
or getting lost in any storm, 
she lies down, begs to be buried 
beneath the trappings of decay, 
oblivious to suggestion or symbol. 
It's so far she has come from three 
autumns ago, sitting in a backpack 
while I raked leaves into piles, 
or two years ago riding in the wheelbarrow
between dumping and filling up,
or even last year's first jumping
into massive piles of oak and maple.
And now, while she is unconcerned
with irony, I can't escape it myself,
such joy, such flouting in the face of death.

This poem first appeared in Innisfree Poetry Review.
Used here with the author's permission.