When I got to the front yard, my neighbor had
just finished raking the leaves. Our property line
was well delineated: no leaves on his lawn,
leaves on mine. He has chosen to participate in
fall’s festival of futility in ways I have not. I’m
waiting for a good stiff breeze to blow them
all down the block to belong to someone else.
The leaves are more singular in their task than I;
all they have to do at this point is let go and fall.
I have to — well, I won’t bore you with my to dos —
let’s just say I already have enough futile flailings
to attend that I don’t need to add raking to my list.
And so my yard is full of leaves — let me be clear —
not because I didn’t have time to rake, or I didn’t
buy a rake, or I had planned to rake and was kept
from my task by some circumstantial emergency.
I’ve chosen to let my lawn be a sanctuary for the
fallen, a place for leaves to land and stay for as
long as they like. If I do gather them at all, it
will be to make a big pile for the purpose of
doing my best Snoopy impression, shuffling
through the stack, my head kicked back in glee,
until all the leaves are scattered once more
across the yard. Then I will wave to my
neighbor as he rakes, and go inside, grateful.