When our oak trees get to rusting
and their greenless leaves descend,
Our lawn's at ease in its russet spread.
Not I. My dreams teem with teeth
Of grinning rakes that wake a dread
More dire than the mower in April did.
The mower boasts a motor and a bag;
The bareboned rake has merely me
With a back that bends reluctantly
As I tote raked tons of tree debris
While spitefully in shaking glee
The oaks shed on incessantly.
The pride of lawn that goeth
before a Fall
Fades fast with the fatigue fall begets
On me -- this season of regrets,
The time of the rake
And the shameless smiles
Of the unburdened naked trees.