Poetry for the Season

Yard Work
A curved man steps on the porch,
His saggy pants cause him to lurch,
Of danger he is unaware,
So while descending he declares:
My step is slow,
My hands do shake,
But every fall,
I work the rake. 
He grips his walker,
Feet goat-wide,
And then addresses,
All outside:
So much has passed,
There’s naught I make,
Yet I today,
Still work the rake. 
A bike flies past,
Then many cars,
The steady scrape,
Heard near and far,
The man’s steadfast,
He will not yield,
A modest pile,
He strives to build:
I fear not death,
Make no mistake,
I win each time,
I work the rake. 
One day the leaves,
Will fall and wait,
Hoping to feel,
His clumsy gait,
Some time will pass,
Their brown hearts bleak,
Until they find,
Warm words to speak:
Though he has gone,
Yet for his sake,
We sort ourselves,
And miss the rake. 

 

Gene Kahane is one of Alameda’s poets laureate.