Of An Art

Don't think I don't know
standing there in brown beds 
of frost-soft hostas
what faded is.
Hands burdened by the last tomatoes.
Cucs, eggplant and musty summer squash.
All memory-on-tongue. The roses gone.

It's in the air. Crisp-apple-tart
and sunsets' pumpkin-celebrations
when the rains don't ice-needle
the day away...

Too soon cold-so-cold
it can't be shirked off
will worm into our bones
and we'll crave fire, the good book,
tea, a strong pick-me-up for sleep
and dream of wild raspberries'
​juice of summer.

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