a pile of leaves

THERE'S A SPOT in my backyard that I really like to see,

I sit and stare at it sometimes. Right against a white picky fence,

in a spot in the shade, under a huge mulberry tree, the corner

of the yard has a pile of orange leaves, fallen, dry and dead.

The leaves make the spot look like a painting, so soft. It looks

Peaceful, quiet and serene. I really can't say why, but it

reminds me of a simpler time in life. A time before Trump and Biden,

Covid-19, the out-of-control wildfires running loose like barking dogs

in California, the more than usual number of hurricanes and floods

slamming the East coast, hard, wet and heavy, until the big snow comes,

or the Me Too Movement is followed by the protests for systemic

racial injustice now taking place in the streets of

some American cities.

You don't have to hide when the insurrection comes, nor do you have

to point fingers at whose to blame...Give the people their money and

help them keep their homes...Most people will survive if the minimum

wage stays the same...just don't open our country too quickly, the

vaccines are still on the way . . . .

There set a pile of leaves. Untouched by the wind in a

corner of the yard, quietly alone. Soft evening sunlight plays

lazily upon it, skipping in the breeze

across its top . . .

I like to call it--HOME.

There I don't have to think. I don't have to worry about

elections. I don't have to wonder whose killing whom

or why. I can simply sit on my swing and think. Enjoying

nothing at all, but the moment.