I love to write playful verses (often with a serious message hidden inside) for my grandsons. If you want to receive a notice when new content is posted, please subscribe below.
These Leaves
“These leaves won’t rake themselves.”
Or so my father said,
when he woke me up today
and dragged me out of bed.
Before I had my breakfast,
he handed me a rake.
I’d barely even gotten dressed;
I wasn’t half-awake.
He sent me out into the yard
and said “Now get down to it.”
But when he went inside the house,
I took my rake and threw it.
I shuffled through the fallen leaves
that came up to my knees.
I tossed great handfuls up and they
came down just where they pleased.
As I played, a breeze came up,
soft as a breath, it’s true.
But then it started in to howl.
It blew and blew and blew.
Leaves were thrown around the yard
like they were in a blender.
I stood and watched them blow about,
the fat ones and the slender.
They blew up north, they blew down south
they blew both west and east.
If the gale had thought to eat them
It would have had a feast.
Then the wind began to die,
it finally settled down.
What I saw amaz-ed me
When then I looked around.
The leaves were gone without a trace,
they’d blown away for good.
All there was was dirt and grass
Where in the yard I stood.
It’s like the leaves were taken
by a crew of busy elves.
My dad, apparently, had been wrong.
The leaves had raked themselves.