October rain

It's raining this morning, which is the beginning of the end for the dahlias.  I'm glad I brought these in yesterday.


And Now it's October
by Barbara Crooker

The golden hour of the clock of the year.
Everything that can run
to fruit has already done so: round apples, oval plums, bottom-heavy
pears, black walnuts and hickory nuts annealed in their shells,
the woodchuck with his overcoat of fat.
Flowers that were once bright
as a box of crayons are now seed heads and thistle down.
All the feathery
grasses shine in the slanted light.
It’s time to bring in the lawn chairs
and wind chimes, time to draw the drapes against the wind,
time to hunker down.
Summer’s fruits are preserved in syrup,
but nothing can stopper time.
No way to seal it in wax or amber;
it slides though our hands like a rope of silk.
At night, the moon’s restless searchlight sweeps across the sky.