There is a time

Every November, the militia comes out. 

Huge machines scrape and blow the tree lawn piles 

into the middle of the street, 

sometimes the stack of debris is ten feet tall. 

I love this machine, the one that can push, scoop and lift

the leaves in the flatbed trucks.  He is king of all. 

Some years, I have watched as I do other things in my yard, 

but today I got up to watch it all.  I sat right on my stoop, 

as the chilled air made my breath winter white.

And it did not take long for me to wish that I could add

other stuff to the pile, stuff that could be taken out of here

to decompose elsewhere: 

her "no" when I asked if we could lay down one more time, 

the empty hollow of my house some nights, 

the "I could have" thoughts that still skitter through my brain, 

the conversation we will never get to have,

my dry skin, the new worry lines on my face, 

the bed, so wide and cold, 

the unknowing, the what ifs, the I may nevers, 

the silverware stacked in the sink. 

I wish the men would come and blow 

the piles of hindsight off the yellowing grass, 

and push it all into the middle of the street, 

with my neighbor's miscarriage, 

the deaf dog, my friend L's dissolving marriage, 

all of the scrapes and scars that beloved children may get, 

the words mothers say that stick and damage for years, 

the stiff space between hard conversations, 

bruises on the hip, bruises on the soul. 

I wish we could stack it all ten feet high, 

twenty feet if needed, 

and drive it all away to a place 

where these things can be placed, 

molt and change into reusable matter, 

instead of doing this hard work--

this work that must be done --

by churning and composting 

the sadnesses in our hearts.