Leaves, leaves, everywhere. They blanket the rancho’s front lawn and the back forty. They swirl in the pool. I stare at them and wonder how much longer I can get away with ignoring them before the grass dies and the skimmers clog up. I much prefer them as poetry.
Autumn Song
Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse’s flowers will not last;
Nurses to the graves are gone,
And the prams go rolling on.
Whispering neighbours, left and right,
Pluck us from the real delight;
And the active hands must freeze
Lonely on the separate knees.
Dead in hundreds at the back
Follow wooden in our track,
Arms raised stiffly to reprove
In false attitudes of love.
Starving through the leafless wood
Trolls run scolding for their food;
And the nightingale is dumb,
And the angel will not come.
Cold, impossible, ahead
Lifts the mountain’s lovely head
Whose white waterfall could bless
Travellers in their last distress.
W.H. Auden 1936
I know I’ll have to rake them sooner or later. I decide to make it later. Of course.
THE TEXAS SCRIBBLER 