They are in the back now blowing out leaves,
tearing out the dead,
raking up beds,
making it all go away—
But the next morning the leaves are back
like the dead
they keep falling too:
gathered by curbs, the ground,
unseen by most,
a vague clutter.
The next day after sunrise the lake has turned from pink to gray,
and I think there’s nowhere else I’d rather be today.
And the knobby old hand that leans by the lake,
the arm of a tree that has no leaves,
has caught the colored bobs of an angler’s line,
that dangle from the branches like Christmas balls
from a tree dragged to the curbside
to be taken away—
Oh to the dead and unknown,
will someone please
make them go away?