Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who’s to say where
The harvest shall stop?
I like this poem. I like the flow, the feeling, and of course the hopelessness of it. It makes me wonder, what “leaves” do we have in our lives, what harvest – lacking in glory – are we compelled to “load and unload.”
[ Smiles ] Thanks for sharing your insight; it was well-appreciated.
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