I brought my neighbor a leaf that had fallen
Off my tree and taped it to his door.
He didn't like it. He didn't thank me,
For he is in a war, like Don Quixote,
And leaves are his windmill.

Everyday, he's raking, raking,
Bagging, bagging,
Wiping his brow.
But everyday the wind is blowing,
His eyes glaze over. He cuts them around.
All his neighbors' leaves are falling down
And blowing right into his yard.

I think he should move to Piedmont,
Amarillo, or Santa Fe,
If he doesn't like the oak leaves
Falling in his yard this way,
This conspiracy of beautiful burnt orange oak leaves.

Today I saw an industrial strength
Leaf blower strapped to his back
Like an exoskeleton,
Safety goggles bulged like big bug eyes on his face,
And all day long I heard the monotonous hum
Of his good riddance song.

But tonight, the wind is blowing,
Galing, gusting, blustering about,
Knocking more leaves out of the trees
Right down in poor old Joe's yard.
And tonight I found this lovely crimson one,
And tip-toed right up to his door,
And taped it there, for him to find
In the morning.

Hehee

-jenn