Fall Leaves

by Carla Schwartz

I hate the trees.
Every fall the leaves,
whole piles swirl and spin
in the wind and land
in sheaves on the grass,
the driveway, the walk.

I slipped
on leaves yesterday.
Now, dead leaves stick
to the inside of my sweatshirt.

Mostly, I hate the pines.
The fine brown needles
don’t prick, but lie flat,
a sticky thick carpet
woven brown,
ready to douse the yard
with acid.
I want to light the trees
on fire.

I never asked for so much.
The honey locust used to drop wheelbarrows of pods yearly,
until I chopped it down.

I do a little raking when I can.
Pine needles, where they pile up.
And I mow the leaves into the grass.

My mother always warned me to take care of the lawn.
If you let it go, it will cost thousands to replace.
I hate caring for the grass, too.


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