Grey November afternoon.
Very late for raking leaves.
Used to be a family affair,
with children running in the yard,
making mischief.
Now, it is a one-man job.
The autumn leaves
still smell fragrant.
The crisp cold air
still pleasing to breathe.
Toiling away, I seem to hear
the voice of late wife,
yelling at us,
barking orders.
Oh, how I used to hate this job.
Yard work is so exhausting.
Why is it that
even bad old days
seem so lovely now?