Where once in fall, the air was filled
With such a special smell,
That burning leaves aroma
Which I loved, as you can tell…
Today, instead, we have the sound
Of blowers making noise,
Which I would bet that not
A single living thing enjoys.
The leaves, once raked and burned,
Now sit in piles to cart away
Or else get spread around, where they
Will, in the future, stay.
I miss the scents of autumns past
And crackles of the flames,
Preferred to the incessant drone
Each blower loudly claims.
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