Lost to Sighs of the Wind

Here it rests,
Splayed over lawn
Like a drunk old man
Finally lost legs and fallen.

Held fast through tempests
Long before I was born,
Sworn timeless -
Grandness embracing our sky,

Now crumpled, helpless
Across fence, on grass.
Numberless the seasons birds'
Nests were welcomed -
Summers alive with tapping
As woodpeckers hammered
Their homes in its branches,
Leaving as young were
Done with its shelter.

In Autumn, I once watched
A squirrel scamper a limb,
Disappearing, somehow, within.
Their secret's now obvious
As I can see the trunk was
Eaten hollow and empty.

The poor dumb giant
Spoke only when breezes
Animated leaves in evening,
Never given voice of its own
To decry those insults,
Feeding sweet fruit, instead,
To those creatures that ate
Of the strength held within.

Vibrant green life in spring
Was a veneer too thin,
As in living a lie
Finally admitted in sighs
Of the wind.

Counting Fireflies

In somber autumn dreams
we watch as clocks melt,
time the illusion once felt
on a creaking porch swing
one summer somewhere

when fireflies held in our hands
transcended brilliance of stars
because we sat there together
hiding smiles in the dark,
believing there was forever

Modern Existentialism

Thought I'd throw in with Sartre and Camus, but as my attention span is so short, the story is, too:

http://www.troubadour21.com/short-stories/zanfad/catching-ashes/

Faithless

Here to commit the quivering weak,
Feeding scurrying beasts
More reeking fodder,
Sentimental flesh no match for
Razor sharp teeth.
Banging pot lids, stomping feet
Hoping that rats near, feasting
On scraps and detritus
Will scatter amid bluster
Before eyes dare to open,
Perhaps catch sight of things
That might scare us.
And cans, never closed -
Left always ajar, an offering
Lest they grow too hungry,
Gnaw through walls and come inside,
Share foie gras
With guests hoped to impress
Now seated and dining behind,
Disgust them in sight of sins
Hidden back in the darkness,
Leaving fine linens soiled
With meals yet digested.

This body's been disposed before -
Innocent specter resurrected
By morning to fog up the mirror,
Reciting novenas as beads of his rosary
Roll in counts down its surface,
Never suspecting fate that awaits
As night falls once more.
Daytime is easier, drowning sound
From his voice in symphonies
Of piano and strings - Mozart's or Mahler's -
Other things of distraction...
That aren't there to hide in when
Sun fades and sleep tries to invade.
The figure repudiated, extracted
From psyche dissected years ago,
Like a tumor threatening to grow,
Swallow now from which time's made.
In pretense of conversion for the moment,
Take hand to lead him,
More fresh meat for the rodents -
Even saints sometimes lie
When they don't like the answers,
Atone deception later -
He still cries when I leave him
Alone at the altar.

Once a shaman, shaking dried heads
Tied to a stick with palm leaves
Promised mysterious potions
That would strengthen the weak,
Reciting magical incantations
Expected to exorcise spirits within
For all those who believed,
Practicing his science of faith
Or faith in his science,
For clients lined up at the door,
Seeking doses of hope that he sold them,
Returning each week for some more.
But for those apostate,
Left to stare in the glare of florescent,
Humors never found balance
In bloodletting, lancet nor leaches.
The weakness of faithless
Was in never tasting his cure,
Trusting tears could ever be
Wiped away by ice picks
He would thrust deep in eye sockets,
Or the sweet lies that he told them.
Holes left in one's soul
Could never filled by blue pills -
They couldn't reach them.


Missionaries positioned their ways
Through that breach,
Preaching new theology
That required surrendering
A reliquary of cherished memories
Precondition for salvation,
Discarding polished bones
We had kissed and prayed over:
Precious pink t-shirt,
Coil of hair still stuck there,
Though having no root
It could never be proved
From whom it was groomed,
But that was article of faith,
Who would dare question it?;
Used ticket stub, date imprinted
Indicating temporal truth that
Once something bigger existed
That we, too, felt part of;
Words bound in a covenant
Sent by saints in small pieces
Of lavender-scented mail,
Though having waited so long,
Faith in The Coming had wasted,
Perfume, long ago, faded...
To imagination.

And so, abandoned all hope of redemption:
A red rose rendered in oil,
Expressing devotion for eternity,
Lost meaning when it withered,
Watered by hope, as it was;
And castles built on clouds
Only come tumbling to ground
When we look up, stare at the sky;
The permanent brilliance of diamonds,
Become mere stones in the garden
When sown from a window up high,
Wealth for worms to covet and fight over.
Fools sift soil through fingers
In search of lost sacrament,
Finally planting their hopes
In the grave that they've made.
For forsaken, faith is just hope
Not yet ready to die.
But I think of the weak one I'll see in the morning,
Likely still worshiping old bones,
And reciting from memory ancient liturgy;
When I let it, a cacophony of questions
Can echo about paths never taken,
And why some vows, not others;
Wonder if there's a heaven for heathens
When clocks cease their ticking
Off nows that I live in.

Holding Hands

crickets whisper secrets to evening's breezes,
there where grass ends and trees begin.
limbs sway, heat of day rescinds
its sentence of old madness;
cool air invites to breathe
once again, and deeply,
sweet in flowers unseen
twilight descended;
mingled fragrance
renewed stale blood
coursed though veins;
and firefly flashes
now understood,
as brilliant as stars
that shine overhead
when stopping for rest
on an outstretched arm,
if only for a moment mine;
while starlight, never invested,
remains always at distance, and silent.
those unanswered questions, tonight, less pressing
Amid hushed murmurs of insects and thrushes at home in the wood

No Rules

Stress or a bad cold can bring it back. It starts with redness and scaling skin which only the most self-controlled of men could refrain from scratching. Then bleeding; not profuse, but spotty and embarrassing. By then, my entire right ear might be inflamed and achy, a condition which lasts for about a week. Then it fades away. They crawl back into deep recesses of my own cells, hiding until I may have forgotten from whence they came. These virus particles re-emerge only to celebrate my moments of weakness. Remnants of other suppressed memories, of which I have many, aren't as predictable as these when escaped the muck under which I bury such things. I don't share other people's phones when I remember, for fear of sharing the consequences of my life with the innocent.

Philadelphia is a city of neighborhoods, fiefdoms of ethnic groups and gangs, a confused mangle of unwritten rules of engagement, but nevertheless understood by us all. North Philly was a dangerous place all my life because I was a West Philly boy. We feared North Philly, though as large as the city is, never had to confront its people unless we traveled there. Germantown was more distant and unknown, though feared no less. South Philly and The Northeast were never mentioned because those were white areas; nobody would even think of going there. Good Rule Number One was that a solitary visitor could be safe most places during the day if they were skin-matched to the locals; it was easier to blend in. Two might draw attention, but three might be interpreted as an invasion, with challenges likely to ensue.

West Philly had its own set of toughs, block by block. A white boy living in a black neighborhood, I had special privilege in that I wasn't expected to join our local gang. The black catholic school kids had dispensations, too. We had to yield the basketball court and our basketball if the gang took a fancy to play. Our money was theirs, too, if they asked. But to opposing gangs, we were untouchables, as to harass us was to encroach on "our" gang's "boys". War might result. Nice, and small the price to pay for safety. As kids, the rules made sense. Better, there was safety in certainty when everyone followed the rules.

But faces were local. The 52nd Street gangs, still West, didn't know mine, though only a few El stops away. We were very careful traveling there to the movies because of Rule Number One. A girlfriend had to keep spatial distance there so we wouldn't be seen as a couple and raise rankle before the lights went down. The Bottom, where I lived, didn't have a theater, though, so hearts raced for many reasons on dates. North Philly was still a world away. We never traveled there, only hearing about it in gossip. Besides, their gangs used guns. In the '70's, our gangs fought with blades. The meanest may have used zip guns, improvised single shot devices made from a piece of wood or pipe, a rubber band and a single shell, but they were notoriously inaccurate shots. We made shivs, disposable knives shaped from metal salvaged from old TV chassis, hardened and tempered in fire. Friction tape made handles that didn't get slippery with the sweat that was sure to pour in the heat of summer battle, and made fingerprinting all but impossible.

Boys grew up back then. I left the old neighborhood and took a job that sent me alone on service to all parts of the city. An adult, I realized a new set of rules. A grungy white man in a black neighborhood is easily mistaken for an undercover cop if he carries himself with confidence and is given distance like any other undercover cop. Following the rules - unshaved, sloppy hair, worn clothes, air of confidence - I safely navigated for years in the most dangerous, crime-ridden areas of Philadelphia, black and white, with impunity. I watched other employees quit after being held up. Some thought I was insane for not carrying a handgun for personal protection; but I knew the rules. There was safety in the rules, which were better than a gun. I was surprised that people in North Philly were awed when they learned that I grew up in The Bottom of West Philly, certain that it was the most dangerous place on earth.

I had watched gun battles between warring gangs from front row seats; worked in a drug house that was attacked by a rival gang with hellish machine gun fire, praying they wouldn't get inside to finish. They didn't. I witnessed, aghast, a mob hit at a gas station, and stood as a boy was gunned down in front of me, taking a bullet that could have as easily hit me. It didn't. The rules were my rabbit's foot, and I always walked away unscathed. There may have been consequences if I allowed myself to dwell on any of the things I saw. Confident bearing required burying memories, mind fresh for the 'morrow, and I learned a trick to forget them. Not even my wife ever knew of the experiences, as I forgot them as soon as they were over. I was like a ghost, present but untouchable.

That changed on a service call to North Philly, the part even cops had abandoned to drug gangs. That afternoon my rules were breaking down, as I was lost on Butler Street, amid a maze of one-way streets, dead ends, railroad cut-offs, and my appointment time passed. I was lost and there was no safe place to pull over to consult the map. As if sensing my frustration, my pager began beeping, the office insisting I return a call immediately. Reset, it chirped again. Without considering the rules, I pulled to the curb at the first pay phone I saw and got out of the car.

A cluster of young men were lingering at the sidewalk - they had probably taken over the legitimate operation of the corner store to sell crack cocaine. There was no bus stop, nor any obvious reason to be there - just a phone no one was using. We eyed each other, but they parted as it became apparent that I was headed towards the public phone mounted on an outside wall. The rules were at work. I hoped that fear didn't show in my face or gait, and concentrated on maintaining the appearance of certainty and purpose. I watched the others from the corners of my eyes. The quarter dropped in the slot and I dialed quickly so that I could keep an eye on my company, but as the secretary answered on the other end, I became aware of an overpowering odor.

Public phones were always filthy - this one was awful. The face was spattered with thick, sepia globs, handset sticky against my ear. I thought that some kid must have had fun squirting the phone with ketchup. Even the sidewalk was covered and my boots were stuck in a thick pool of congealed condiment. It was the smell that turned my stomach. It was like a nosebleed, which was when I realized it wasn't ketchup. I was surrounded by, standing in, touching, and smeared with the blood of a recent hit. Sickness welled up in my stomach. Maintaining a mask of confidence, essential to the rules, had become impossible. I couldn't coax a breath of the deathly air into my lungs, as I was fighting an urge to vomit and run back to the car. I hung up and walked quickly, overcoming disgust I felt for a right hand smeared in blood, thrusting it into my pocket for the keys.

The memory went the way of the others - intentionally lost for a while. There are no magic talismans that confine and restrict violence forever. My ear broke out in my own blood weeks later. The slain was afflicted with herpes, his fluid so fresh when I used the phone that his disease passed through my skin, becoming part of my being. Old mind games to lose unpleasant experiences don't work anymore. Now I can't bury the face of the boy who fell at my feet, looking as if he wanted to ask someone "Why me?" but couldn't make any words come out of his mouth; nor the first thought in my mind: "Jeez, good thing he was standing there.... could have been me." The shame of that sin stinks like that phone and the bloody ear I've earned. We are, none of us, phantoms untouched when a child dies on the street, when all men are fathers found wanting. In my imagination, I now kneel, stroke and kiss my dying son's forehead, crying. There are no rules anymore; we've been absent for too long.

The Alley Off Thirteenth Street

Working here in the alley just off Thirteenth Street
I heard echoes of "Clara" amid soul-piercing sobs -
A woman shambled over, arms glued to her sides,
Empty hands holding invisible sand bags.
Tear-streaked, wet cheeks, still crying,
Paused, wailing "Have you seen my Clara?"
I wanted to help her, really I did
So pathetically lost, sad, hopeless and desperate.
Yet I answered with truth, "No, I didn't"
Who was this woman, and Clara, at that?
Maybe a child, wandered away ages ago,
Mother, gray, tormented, still searching...
"Then fuck you", she yelled, shuffling away
Toward Thirteenth Street, unconcerned
She wore just one slipper for two ashy feet.
A simple reply could've tendered new hope
Of holding dear Clara
Before death finally stole her

Then an old sod danced his odd waltz,
Legs still unsteady, he stopped here
To water the wall -
Swore he knew me - two soldiers in 'Nam -
But I was too young.
Remarked my health must be failing,
He'd never seen me so pale, suggesting
Medicine from the brown bag he held.
He offered to hold the long ladder steady
So I wouldn't fall again like I did in Saigon.
"No!", I held firm, but we commiserated
Our hard times since then;
Dayday, and Niney, our friends
Never came back, though we see them
Sometimes in this alley.
Then Matty, my brother, stumbled away
In search of lost buddies in bottles of gin.

Tiki, so skinny, ever the beauty, insisted
We go on a date right there in the alley,
Grabbing my crotch to punctuate
Her proposition, as if words weren't enough.
I offered she was quite pretty, but then
"If only I wasn't married," I lied, so she settled
For the cigarette I lit for her instead;
Wondered when work would be done-
Get to business, making used condoms,
Repaving the alley just off Thirteenth Street.

Perched high on my ladder, I could just see
Distant Broad Street, latex expressions of love
No longer sticking to treads of my boot.
Out there on that corner,
A man from The Nation selling bean pies,
Ignored me for days when I passed him by;
Asked me this morning if I'd like to try
The healthy delicacy he'd held high to God.
I felt blessed, accepted, he addressed me.
Rastafari, camped on the other side,
Still passed out free samples of Passion and Bliss,
Names he gave to incense he wished
Would transform shattered glass and trash
Into the heaven his dreams said might be.
I wore his fresh gifts, sticks behind each ear
Perfuming the stink of stale urine, used condoms
And I wondered if they walked here, too,
Through this alley just off Thirteenth Street.

Cafting Sparrows

Desperate these words,
Chasing fleeting shadow,
Echoes flocking like birds
Amid myriad distortions,
The unquiet mind's sorrow.
In birth chosen for sweetness,
A bid for attentions of one
Soon fade mere whispers,
Weak and defeated tomorrow,
Exhaled anguish unheard.
Written lines would have best
Been spoken in ears years ago
'Ere time flowed its course,
When ever softer verse
Might shimmer
Then a symphony,
Maybe able
To drown life's other sounds
Like Mozart, loud as one can turn up.
Would there be any remedy
Which relieves burdens of memory...
The music of dulcet strings
Does dull stings, still only temporary;
And since abandoned,
Thoughts of more ultimate things.
So still, some poet's quill
Crafts dreams into sparrows,
Sets fluttering free
Their unnatural wings
To sing a song of regret,
Share madness with the winds.

Eternity's Gate

Body and mind in turmoil,
Painted manic swirls of color
Made from dust raised
By wind from soil -
We sit at eternity's gate.
Within our simple frames
Rests God's nobility
Invested with His breaths
'Till called to home at last.

Trip To Nantucket

Remember that afternoon on the ferry
Ride to Nantucket
The labrador who fell asleep on my foot
And the kid who vomited
As we stood at the rail,
Mist in our faces
Foam that curled
From the keel in swirls
A whole world in that turbulence
That no one would ever know of -
Focused on the grey lady's
Promise that a warm comforter
Would melt us together again.
And it did, amid the strangers
We brushed past
On the cobbles at the wharf.
Back at the dock,
You greeted old demons
And so did I
But kept them secrets
From each other
On the long ride
Through pine forests
As you slept, I drove
Back home.

A Gulf Gothic

A thin stream of smoke rose from the cigarette abandoned in the ashtray perched on the arm of the lawn chair, rising just above his head before billowing out in a barely perceptible breeze. In the afternoon heat, sun still high, his hands were concerned with the tall yellow glass he held. Both clasped it steady in his lap, his cold gaze never wandering from me. You know when someone is looking at you rather than just in your general direction. Eyes will meet iris-to-iris, and some sort of energy passes between them. His made me uncomfortable. Even as he raised the tumbler to his lips, ice clinking against the sides, the hard blue eyes stayed fixed on my face, making me wince inside when I dared look at them. Smoke dissipates with random patterns in still air, wavering once one way, then another, without any apparent reason when one can't feel a breeze that might explain. I wondered if he would ever pick up the ever-shrinking butt to take a puff, maybe squint as the smoke reached his eyes. But he didn't.

They had been expecting us to call that afternoon - I was standing aside her when she phoned. I wondered if Daddy always sat there like that in his aluminum chair, guarding the lawn, or if it was a stunt, hastily arranged to impress a stranger before we arrived. No one ever introduced the woman standing behind him, though I assumed she was Momma. There was no empty chair on the lawn, and I wondered if she always stood just behind him, waiting demands for a fresh drink or a light of a smoke. He sat midway between the drive and the light green ranch house planted behind, two motionless pink flamingos flanking its doorway. How odd the picture: the wiry man, graying hair receding at the sides, slicked back, khakis still creased but eased up as he sat, revealing white socks and whiter canvas shoes. He sat at the middle of a perfect lawn, woman standing behind, as out of place as the house. I followed their daughter's cue as she stopped at the sharp edge defining grass and asphalt, and stood there, too.

Wringing hands, face tense as if she expected an explosion imminently, Momma made a weak offer to bring us drinks. I assumed it was southern hospitality, a social expectation learned from generations, that forced words not meant. Her expression clearly spoke what she wanted to say: "Please go away!"; so I, polite too, refused. Inside my mind, I amused myself by imagining her face had I said instead, "Sure, and how about a light?" and struggled to stifle a smile at the thought. Anyway, accepting would have obliged me to stay longer...and how obscenely awkward it would have been to stand there in the drive, just off the grass, holding a glass of iced tea, speaking across the distance like people diseased and in quarantine. Afternoon heat began to burn my feet through my shoes.

Ada Jo started in with news of a surprise find of a ten cent-off coupon for Blue Bonnet she found in the cart at Publix, the traffic on I-75 being unexpectedly high Wednesday last week, "...must have been an accident...that girl a' mine, Penny, just loves Cheerios, Momma. Girl eats them all day!" Momma nodded, squeezing the fingers of her right hand white as death, and nodded vigorously at each of Ada Jo's words like a bobble-head doll. As long as conversation remained as pedestrian, she would be happy. Daddy said nothing, just stared at me. It came to mind it might break our ice if I told him she was still pure - I never touched her. But it would've been sort of a lie. Then, how ridiculous it all seemed! She was, after all, a mother herself, no virgin princess. Last night, we kissed; I had smoothed her hair and caressed her breasts - that was all. Then, maybe Daddy already suspected the stranger in his driveway was only seventeen.

"Bobby's from Pennsylvania, Daddy." My mind had been drifting in the smoke of her old man's forgotten cigarette as she spouted idle trivia of her week, all of which was meaningless to me, having alit here only last night. I came to earth again at hearing my name. "Pennsylvania" rolled slowly, seductively, from her southern lips like an exotic foreign land, and I felt special for a moment. Daddy was unimpressed, and said nothing, though I detected a slight movement of his gaze towards his child.

"He's going back home this week ... gonna call when he's ready for us. Penny and me are going up north," she called across the green expanse. It sounded almost like a taunt, but it couldn't be true. We had met just the night before. She, drunker than I, had passed out. I fell asleep of fatigue, and still remembered every detail of the dark. There had never been any talk of us being together beyond the immediacy of a moment, I was sure; and my briefs never came off. Still, I felt panic, fantasizing a run to the passenger side of the car; Andres, still sitting at the wheel, could floor it in reverse. The Crown Vic would spin into the road, and we'd escape like bank robbers. Andres' head was hung low, still groggy from last night, succumbed to the heat. Ada Jo reached out for my hand and squeezed it tight. My own hand felt limp and helpless.

I had dreamed these would be days in paradise, a gift to myself for graduating high school. How better to start that summer than with a visit to an old friend on the Gulf, enjoying beach, fishing, catching up on years passed by. The first night, just off the flight, I took a cab ride, perhaps longer than necessary, to the address he read off to me over the phone. Details had been sparse, but he couldn't meet me at the airport to drive me himself. The cabby found the place, a palatial high rise condo overlooking the glowing Gulf of Mexico, Sannibel Island off in the distance. The summer retreat of a Pennsylvania steel company executive, I was there by details I didn't really care to know. My old buddy, Andres, was a friend of the girl who seemed to live there but had been too drunk to explain how or why. In a brief moment alone, he explained that the night before I arrived, she had climbed to the patio rail, set to sail to the beach below when he caught her ankle from his wheelchair and hauled her back in; still the gifted fisherman. He had been reticent to leave her for the trip to the airport when I showed up - hence my cab ride.

We had drunk from the bar and smoke cigarettes, recalled old times. Ada Jo sat quietly, uncomfortably close on the couch, her bare thigh brushing against mine intermittently. I inched over, downing drinks too quickly, excuses to get up for refills, seating each time just a little bit farther away on the couch. She found me again each time, until I was finally pressed against the armrest, her thigh finally resting firmly against my skin, tingling with jolts like electricity. I felt embarrassed and trapped, hoping Andres hadn't noticed the dance. He yawned, avowed how tired he was and begged to turn in, rolling his chair down a darkened hall, disappearing.

Finally, fearfully, alone, just two; I felt like cursing my friend for abandoning me. Ada Jo was pretty, but thin lipped and so white, not like girls I knew at home. I feigned a yawn, too, and rose. The patio door was wide open, warm humid air and sounds of waves wafting in. I strode quickly to the deck to escape what I feared might come next, pretending interest in the star-littered sky. Then so did Ada Jo, who suddenly pressed her lips into mine. My belt somehow unbuckled, and bermudas slid to my ankles. So skillfully brought down to the ground, I don't remember putting up any resistance, There we were, two bodies entwined on the patio deck. Her black hair was as soft as elder down, and my fingers couldn't help but run through it. Refusal became a thought far away, like a girl still waiting back home. Reservation submitted to breathlessly exhaled, exciting words describing what should happen next, then silence.

Liquor and pills had finally caught up to her. In fact, I worried she might be dead, the suddenness from passion to passivity, details I knew of the night before. I held her wrist for a pulse while hovering an ear over her mouth to hear for breath. She was alive, but too heavy to move without help. There we both slept the night, wrapped in beach towels I found on a chair, pillow brought out from the sofa. Comforted by the steady pulse of her wrist in my hand, breaths regular, cool moisture between our cheeks, I had fallen asleep.

"You got a job, Boy? Gonna need a job to keep those two." It was the first time I had heard Daddy's voice, words slow the way honey drips from the tip of a spoon, but deliberate and as incisive as the gaze of his eyes. I nodded, then remembered a proper reply from an old movie I'd seen, and hastily added "Yes, sir," playing along with Ada Jo, hoping I might leave his stare sooner that way.

"Call Momma when you and the bastard get there, then," he directed his daughter, never taking his gaze from me. Ada Jo tugged my hand as she turned to the car, tears in her eyes. The ride back to the beach was quiet. Ada ran a hand across my cheek as she got out of the car, suddenly turning once again as if she had forgotten something - a peck to my forehead, plans for dinner that night - something else special.

Takeoff was always my favorite part of a flight, the speed and sudden lift like a roller coaster ride. One moment on the ground then, in an instant, shot above the wisps of clouds. They reminded me of cigarette smoke, the way they drifted in patterns that seemed random when we can't feel the wind. Spinning in mist below, Ada Jo was still trapped in a tower. It was as if she had dreamed of a prince to come from the forest to save her; I showed up instead. Though accidental, unwilling, I still felt failure, unable to untie the binds. Royal cloth never suited simple frames like mine. I pondered what winds once had shaped her; worried she'd again try wings to fly over the gulf of lawn. Fishermen and princes are undependable, not always there when needed, nor up to the jobs that are required of them. Then, I would soon be back home where the world would become normal again. A boy out of high school, I'd share summer tomatoes sprinkled with salt and smiles with Dad, and hold hands at the movies with a girl that could smile, steal her kiss in the dark. All things that would help me forget the one I left behind to stare across the Gulf on her own.

Copyright 2010, Robert Zanfad

Fallen Leaves

Collected, raked to piles
Browned leaves, each a memory
Of a summer's sun-drenched day.
Now even most pious prayer
Unable to revive once emerald glory.

Birds that danced and sung among
The shady canopy
Have moved on, and I wonder
If they still remember
These leaves they once claimed.

Or have fresh foliage, warmer days
Resplendent sweet fruits to savor
Washed them clean again
To bear from here no more mark
Than a season's passing?

Left to rest where they have fallen
The mass will choke the grass beneath.
So, having paused to recall past splendor,
Bent back resumes Autumn's labor -
Collect and rake to piles.