The yard man cometh today to blow-out
the sprinklers, his compressor loud enough
to wake the dead. His violent hymn means
enough—enough of the watering, enough
of the rising twice-a-day-three-days-a-week
to keep the grass green, enough of the mowing,
enough of the paying the godawful water bill.
Yet for everything there is a time, a time to say
Uncle, uncle. We give up. Enough’s enough.
Autumn, that flirt, will tease in her usual hues
then quickly croon Softly I will leave you softly
one night all too soon while we’re sleeping leaving
us there to wake cold in the stare of winter’s eye.