Self Portrait with Yard in Need of Raking

          Three days of high wind—the row of pines out front
rains fusillade of dry needles on the yard. I tell
           myself, perhaps one day I might muster the daily 
kind of industry I see the neighbors apply 
           to this everlasting disorder. But they are armed
with leaf-blowers, leaf-collection chutes, lawn
           edgers, as if the sky won't last longer than any of us.
I go out with a bent-toothed rake and gather dry
           leaves into piles, though what I've read is they're better
laid on a landscape bed as mulch instead of stuffed in bags
           that end up in landfills. While the season is busy
with dying, it's also true that nothing dies. Though it's hard,
           I try to remind myself that every change is not merely 
a vacating. The sky will last longer, almost a kind of love.