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.