​Poverty and hunger,
War and disease,
accumulate about us
like autumn leaves.
But we don’t rake them
anymore.
Just get the leaf blowers
and blow them out
from in front of our door.
So what
they pile up
on someone else’s lawn.
At least our yard is clean
while we await more green,
hoping the leaves
stay gone.
Then one day,
we smelled the smoke.
It wasn’t until
we started to choke
that we showed
too little, too late
concern,
realizing that those were
our leaves
and come the spring,
Green or not,
in the conflagration
We all may burn.

M. Zane McClellan 

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