Burning Leaves

Whenever leaves are burning

And the blue and bitter smoke

Steals up from gardens and roadsides

On evenings in October,

Something in me stirs

And wants to go away.

I may be setting the table,

Or baking a little cake

With edges brown and scalloped.

I may be under the covers

Of the tall four-poster bed

When that scent lays hold on me.

And I would be leaving the fireside,

The willow plates on the dresser,

The quilt with its crazy patches,

For almost any road,

Rain-black or brown and rutty;

For almost any village,

So long as it's not home.