The ecofriendly thing, she said, was composting.
Worms, bugs, nutrients. We’ll not mention snakes,
mice, the nod to Elton John pining about circles of life.

The leaves fell one fateful afternoon, at once,
like someone flipped the switch at a surprise party
and the shock of it all felled the celebrant, whoosh.

Fall was supposed to be gradual, an autumnal display
worthy of Bob Ross or Aunt Edna, some feast for the eyes,
not a blizzard of brown leaves with drifts up to your knees.

She still contended they would decay, so we stacked them
deep—chest high—against the fence, hoping they would
compress, recede enough for us to reclaim the backyard.

In fitful sleep, he stews about that CSI episode,
or was it X-Files, the one with the little graves 
marked throughout the yard, and he sees more leaves

mounding up into little oblong mountains, 
remnants of spring, decomposing in turn,
one final bow before the curtain falls for good.