After Work
Frederick Wilbur


I rake leaves into a pile
on a painter’s canvas drop-cloth.
Late afternoon, the sun saunters softly
through the weakness of gray clouds,
the twigged gingkoes of Grace Street.

The springy-tines gather
the deciduous tribute from where it landed,
the way meditation sweeps clean
cobwebbed beliefs from recesses of mind.

I gather the four corners to bundle the leaves
to backyard compost—still to do some good--
not to pay some social tithe,
but for health of heart, for the labor necessary
to know my solitary season.

My retired neighbor doesn’t understand
why I don’t buy a leaf blower--
it would save loads of time
— he advises
as though he’s never thought
death might be under those wilted receipts.

The rake is a better investment,
because it requires nothing more
than itself and common effort—not gasoline,
not lubricant, not filter, nor yank of rope,
but the shine of tines and deliberate polish of handle.

​I pause the rhythmic whisper of my labor
to hear chick-a-dees, the squirrel scruffling,
to wonder at our falling darkness.