One day, my son
No one will remember
That construction and lawn care tools were once ear-splitting
Head-cracking
Usurpers of peace and quiet
Enemies of concentration
Befoulers of productive thought.
Yes, the day will come
When the broom, perfected centuries ago
But long forgotten
Will take its hallowed place in the hands of the landscaper guy
Deposing the terrible reign of the angry
Screaming
Leaf blower.
Stonecutters will whisper no more harshly than does the fur of a lion aprowl
Neatly, gently
Slicing bricks and shoringstones
Into pleasing shapes
While colorful finches enjoy bright songs
In the nearby trees.
Two-by-fours will segment
Like so many pats of butter
The buzz of the circular saw nigh indistinguishable
From that of a bumblebee.
Jackhammers like jackrabbits
Lawnmowers like breezes
Nail guns like girlish sneezes.
