Clean Sweep.

CLEAN SWEEP

   Swept skies, wind brushed down trees--
   The gust of swift strokes passes
   Through grasses teased and combed.

   Who owns the fallen leaves?
   No one's neighbour does.

   On an edge that is a balcony precipice
   Overlooking the microcosm,
   You can see the swing of the broom
   Rush everything before it down suburban paths.

   I listen to my aching sigh, you make
   A sweeping statement
   That blows away to where leaves go,
   And stays.

   Somewhere there is a settling
   Whilst we lean on brooms and gaze ...
   Somewhere breezes lie in wait
   For the straggle leaf days!