Snap dragons defy frost.
Parsley’s still proud. Definitely perky.
Basil? Pathetic brown.
Squash? Detached from thin ropes that crumble underfoot.
Sunflower heads? Study the ground, groaning with seed.
Marigolds? Confident in life everlasting.
It will take a few killing frosts to do them in.
What is dying in me?
What will survive?
When will I know?
I feel trust catch me, though I can’t prove a thing.
Can’t write a line or a song or a show with a decent plot.
I breathe cool air, sharp as menthol in my brain.
Sun retreats. Days shorten.
I rejoice and I complain.
God did not consult me before the firmament was formed.
Did not ask me what I thought of the earth’s revolution
on a tippy axis or which hemisphere would catch my helpless body
when I plopped onto this world.
I check the furnace.
It hums, pushing warm air through the register.
On the countertop a few precious tomatoes
losing flavor and texture as I write this down.
Dreams dream so deep inside I have no clue of what they’ll be.
Only that they’re as sure as winter’s coming.