My tree anger swells as I look out at my yard tonight, seeing that all the labor I gave to raking up the ankle-deep leaves doesn't matter. My yard is covered once again. The leaves are not ankle-deep yet, but I'm sure Ida will help push more than a few to the yard. They are beautiful, but only not when detached.
by Robert Frost Spades take up leaves I make a great noise But the mountains I raise I may load and unload Next to nothing for weight, Next to nothing for use.
Gathering Leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
