In the dance pavilion wet with rain,
a memory of melon and berries.
Do you know this poet—
one who also makes meatloaf
with brandy and Coke?
Now watching for any sign,
the drift season, October’s silvery veins slow.
On the back porch, winter boots stand ready,
mufflers smelling of mothballs
and lavender hang on wood pegs.
Aspens drop all their leaves in one day.
Bank the fires!
Dry winds from the Oregon border
thrash, split stalks horizontal.
Migrating tundra swans stream
through the Pacific Flyway.
Some say the ashen sky is common
this time of year.
Smoke changes things.
The old are dying.
She says NO!
to worn-out clothes, rides the trolley downtown,
selects new fabric, herringbone
fleeing mechanical reaper blades.