Now
What can l say, now that summer’s gone,
with the weight of its heat,
its thick blanket of humidity,
the cacophony of zinnias, marigolds, salvia?
Now the sky is clear blue and cloudless, that sure one-note
that can only mean October. You’re gone.
The leaves turn gold
in the calendar’s rotisserie, giving up their green,
and the burning bushes
have ignited, struck their book of matches.
It’s enough to make the heart break,
isn’t it?
We keep going down the one road,
there’s no turning back.
By, Barbara Crooker
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