Fall
Fall is definitely here. Yesterday evening I spent a couple of hours sorrowfully blowing leaves from the back yard to the front curb so the city can sweep them. I was going to rake but the grass seed from a couple of weeks ago is growing and I didn't want to hurt the new blades, so instead I cranked up the blower and blew them onto the driveway and then to the curb. Luckily the leaves were dry and scuttled easily down the driveway.
Afterwards, I started thinking about leaf blowing and poetry, wondering if there be poems about leaf blowers or, in general, leaf blowing. No better way to find out than to google leaf blowing poetry and follow the results. Not much there though I did come across a wonderful essay comparing the aesthetic qualities of raking and blowing.
Maybe I should junk the leaf blower, use instead the rake, and fullfill my green obligations of keeping the neighborhood free of noise and pollution.
I have no poems strictly about leaf blowing or raking leaves (the preferable activity all the way around), but I do have a passage in a poem:
the leaves of which
Are falling all over themselves today, bringing us joy or terror
As the case may be but almost certainly the benefits of somebody else’s
Grand moment, too, one we (that is, you and I) have been expecting
Lucky for you if you’ve still got a sense of humor . . . and a rake
To gather it all up with, for no matter when you get to the bottom line
That is happiness, you’ll need “good tools for magnificent encounters”