I stood in the rows of stones
sitting in growing columns,
as the trees littered the carefully laid
orange and white wreathes with
dying leaves.
Pink chrysanthemums root
readying for winter.

I question
why must we do these things;
the dishes,
brush our teeth,
wear clothes,
paint the baseboard,
return things borrowed,
fix the handle on the drawer.

the sink may stink,
but the flies well fed.
bad breathe brings distance,
but distance breeds fondness.
and no one asks a nudist hermit
to lose weight.

These leaves within these stones tuck
a blanket over the raw Earth,
readying for winter,
keeping warm the maggots and beetles.

With the shadow of the raised
scythe looming over us all,
it’s silhouette shrinking as the sun
leaves us

I ask why,
Why must we rake these leaves?