Green and golden they flutter down from the katsura, oak and maple trees
Nudged gently by the breeze of late September, they float to earth
Awakening childhood memories of that brief interlude
When bright blue warmth of summer skies fades into
Clouds of smoke curling upward from burning piles of fallen leaves.
Time to clean up our act!
Do our neighborly duty and give the yard a final go.
Surrounded by an infernal buzz of blowers, we march out
Defiantly grasping rake and broom and memories of how it used to be
Before the din of those annoying windbags filled the air.
Good to feel muscles rhythmically raking
Spring’s hopes from sidewalk, steps and street into neat piles,
Responsible and ready for bagging.
All seems as it once was, under control.
Until the darkening sky sends forth a
Warning of the fragility of momentary calm.
The past is not recaptured so easily.
The sky is still darkening, the winter winds blowing harder.
Neat piles of leaves scatter as neighbors disappear inside their solitary houses.
Will we gather together once again?
Or will our blind ambition lead us inexorably creeping toward the fall?
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