It’s windy out.
The Fall has come. The trees
Drop their leaves
On my lawn. But I am man.
I was made for this.

It’s windy out.
Leather gloves and rip-stop pants
Protect my skin from poison plants
And hide my shame.
I roll my sleeves.

It’s windy out.
The winds and leaves
Will obey my decrees.
I dominate the yard with my machines.
Then the battery dies.

It’s windy out.
The leaves fly in my face.
I pick up the pace.
The wandering wind whispers,
“Who is this? What is man?”

It’s windy out.
My face is wet
With beads of sweat.
I finish the job and take a look.
Did I make progress with this chore?

It’s windy out.
“This season will end,” I vow.
But I know somehow
Another will take its place,
And on my grave the leaves will fall.

It’s windy out.
Can one outlast the seasons?
Surprise to all who reason
That the grave is the end!
It’s a good thing

It’s windy out.