The Leaf Blower (Poetry)

Here he comes — the slow march up and down —
oblivious to trees, his trance-like tread
ears defended, nozzle pointed low
he shepherds round the crisp and newly-dead.

Gloved against environment and deaf
to natural noise — the mutiny of leaves —
no interaction — he remains aloof
indifferent, strips the grass by cold degrees —

heaps dead bodies, chivvies them in piles
without a thought, pollutes — spreads drifting fumes
kicked out by the blower — takes his ponderous time —
the engine sputters half the afternoon

before he’s done, the tainted air grown dim
as he trudges too and fro with shovelfuls —
denies the earth its due — its right to rot.
A job’s a job — he plods, mechanical.

Not for him, tradition’s rake and compost heap
or satisfaction — working through his part
in the year’s turning — knowing he connects
with something deep at its organic heart.

He stands at odds with Autumn’s universe —
an alien who never learned to love
or understand its nature. Even as
the engine dies more leaves fall from above.