Ode To Autumn's Leafy Wetness

I spent this last Saturday helping our church get a church camp cleaned up. It was all part of our church's effort to lead people to acts of worship. I was part of a group of kickin' rad guys that were going to do "random acts of kindness." However, rain rained on our plans to rake leaves for random people. So, we ended up joining another group that went out to the church camp to clean up. We cleaned gutters and an old barn. It was a ton of fun and makes me so excited to be among such a community of servers (if you're an IT guy or gal, please don't think I'm using a technology term). Anyway, among all that fun I had only one not so nice thought...

Why is it that old, dead, wet leaves smell so bad? It's a smell that clings lightly to the crisp mist that hangs in the autumn air with the pungent odor of cat pee and the oaky, gut churning smell of dog doo. It's foul. Not foul as in "foul ball," because at least with a foul ball your hitter still has some hope of driving the next ball over the fence and your pitcher is one strike closer. In this case, there is no hope involved. Even the hope of enjoying the pyrotechnics from burning old foliage is taken away
by the awareness of the dampness of the drudge.

(read in similar meter as "The Bells" by Edgar Allan Poe")

Alas, poor Patruchio,
you cannot escape the drain that draws you downward toward the dank and dreary, dreary drudge.
Not a draught in steamy summer,
nor the dirth of dewy morn can detain
the delicately dour stench of autumn's leafy mourn.
Quoth the leaf, "nevermore."

So you lean a little lower to grasp the growth of odor,
but it leaves you only lonely hoping, wishing, wanting more.
It's a strange intoxication of distaste
that is mired in desire
to know the odor's fouler than the filthy film that flowers all about your shower door.
Quoth the leaf, "nevermore."

So your eyes grow slightly teary and your vision seems more bleary
as the odor you are driven to discover makes you crazy.
With eyes so slightly hazy, lazy thoughts of leafy crunching
during summer's daunting dusting
and the dream of distant winters
whispering winds wildly rustling
a deeply dry and cleansing smell.
Yet the pain is in the knowing of the roaring and the pouring of the spring and autumn showers
making raking into piles mounds and pounds of putrid power
harder than the barter of a coward.
Quoth the leaf, "nevermore"

Now you know you will remember smells that roared around the timbers
Before becoming embers while the wetness and the dampness of the drudge
Lightly lingers in the autumn
Growing only slowly that more sour
with the power of the dying
Of the Leaves.
Quoth the leaf, "nevermore"