Windrows

Sisyphus forsake your stone,

and help me rake these leaves,

for I've an autumn afternoon

and you eternity.

Discarded litter of an oak

I planted in my prime,

we'll sweep into mountains

higher than Zeus has known.

My labor's end is drawing near

gathering summer's dross

for men or gods to burn in piles

or mulch in shallow graves.

Then you and I will drink neat

the remnants of the day

and sip the bourbon twilight

till we rejoin infinity.