The leaves come down; my look is gaunt;
The trees begin their autumn taunt
As canopy they slowly doff;
Never miss a local story.
At sight of paper bags, they scoff.
They fear no implement nor rake;
Their own sweet time they like to take.
The maple sneers; the sycamore
Will drop a bunch, then drop some more.
Supply of leaves they tend to wreak
Is infinite (at least, this week.)
I’ll keep the yard just as it’s been;
The leaves are winning — yet again.
Don Munday, firstname.lastname@example.org