Piles of Leaves
In the suburbs, piles of leaves
Sit waiting on the street,
The blowers having gathered them
In mounds, all nice and neat.
A gust of wind may carry some,
Or possibly a child
Who couldn’t quite resist the urge
To tap his inner wild.
But once a week, a truck comes by
And with its giant hose,
It sucks that foliage from the road
To someplace no one knows.
When I was young, the leaves were raked
And then were set aflame,
That sweet aroma spelling “fall”
In memory’s acclaim.
They vanished in a dust of ash
As heavenward they’d rise
Along with childhood’s fading hold
We’d once romanticize.
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