Back in the Day

Back in the day, so long ago

to be just a memory

of my younger self, carefree

and ignorant, roaming the streets

of the only hometown I knew, but remembering, now,

the acrid smell of recently raked leaves burning,

smoke rising from smoldering piles

carefully guarded by my father and the other

men of the neighborhood, stalwart men

leaning on their rakes, remembering their fathers

and grandfathers, equally stalwart, and watching

the smoke rise, pungent and sharp,

gray wisps rising in this collective burning

on an early evening before dark

and the wind died down, an image I recall

thinking of autumn and my own battle

with the leaves falling, amassing in my yard,

a carpet of faded colors to be cleared.

But today, I’m less stalwart than the men

of my lineage and the laws have changed,

leaves now to be raked and bagged and placed

at the end of the drive for pickup, transported

away, burning and the odor of leaves smoldering

a crime, a criminal offense, too dangerous,

a fire hazard by those less vigilant to watch

and keep guard, too impatient for this autumn chore,

too risky in the slow burn of autumn leaves.

So we take out our rakes and leaf blowers

and contain the leaves in piles on a Saturday

afternoon, corralling the hangers on and the playful

ones escaping to swirl in the corners of the fence

and the children, too, tempted and giving in

to leap laughing into a freshly raked pile,

piled high, scattering our work and piquing our ire,

we who have forgotten the nature of children

and piles of leaves, perhaps ourselves even,

so we rake again and again, still, more piles

to stuff into bags dragged to the street, a Monday

pickup and the smell of diesel idling or roaring

down the street as we head off to work, too busy,

yet remembering “back in the day” and the acrid

smell of smoldering leaves, our fathers leaning

on their rakes, these stalwart men, standing guard,

remembering the autumns of their lives.