Father had a law
when it came to leaves
gathering on our lawn in fall.
On a Saturday each fall,
almost as predictable
as the swallows coming
back to Capistrano,
neighbors would pour
out of their bungalows
and rake with good cheer,
chat and drink cider.
On those Saturdays Father
would remind Mother again
of the law he proclaimed years ago.
He would remind her the leaves
on our lawn were not our leaves.
He would remind her that we
had no trees and never would.
He would say neighbors with trees
should come get their leaves.
By dusk the leaves on our lawn
would begin to blow over on
the clean lawns of neighbors
canopied with sycamore and oak.
Mother would have another year
to memorize Father’s Law.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Farher needs go go out on the lawn at dead of night with a blower and blow the leaves back to his neighbour. Lovely poem, I felt I was there.