The Machine From Hell
Autumn leaves are fluttering
From the broad and stately oak.
Our warm and cozy hearths, now lit,
Send up their plumes of smoke,
To air perfumed with cedar scent
And winter smells of pine,
The crisp, cool day as beckoning
As finest, vintage wine.
Sunshine sends its warming rays
To banish winter chill,
A breeze sighs softly through the trees
Where dark-eyed Juncos trill.
Then peace is harshly shattered
By the awful, strident roar,
Assaulting every eardrum
Like the death throes of a boar.
The noise is more alarming
Than the screech of garbage trucks.
It’s worse than toddlers screaming
Or a chainsaw run amok.
Dispelling peace and solitude
With every decibel,
It must have been invented
In the very bowels of hell.
In case you haven’t guessed by now
The thing I most despise,
It is the gas leaf blower,
And I wish for its demise.
But every time I go outside
With coffee hot and steaming,
A neighbor cranks the wretched thing,
There is no intervening.
And so I write this ode to its demise
For all our sakes,
And urge all you who blow your leaves
To please consider rakes.