My mulching mower chops up
leaves the fragments of leaves
popped, pounded pushed
into the remains of the lawn.
It leaves shreds of leaves like
yellow irregular confetti ripped
out of the trees and ready
for an autumn of dissipation.
Each day the trees gift me an
abundance of crop to harvest
Each day I spin the leaves into
food for spring and summer.
A certain amount of looking
into the mouth of this gift horse
has taught me that there is a price:
I have to live here in the winter.
