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.

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