Half the lawn is clean,
the other half returns to forest.
The border between leaves and raked lawn
winds the base of fir and apple
like the contour of some old shoe.
I have no interest to clear the whole thing.
One half, near the road, is green.
The other half gets too much shade
to be a mainstream lawn.
There the leaves will stay,
and next year weeds will grow,
and brush for years thereafter,
and saplings, growing tall
as they reach for sun.
The house will age, and in its years
be torn for shrunken joist
and rotted clapboard.
Perhaps another will be built,
and then another.
But eventually the land will
go the way it wants,
a hidden corner,
shafts of sunlight catching insects
as they dart mid day.
And this patch of emerald raked so hard
will be long returned to forest.