some crisp morning and realize summer has left us,
irrevocably, in the night. What will we have then ––
a rumbling of apples on the roof, frost-tinged roses,
sweaters and jean jackets, afternoons of white wine
and tea sandwiches? In the last failings of the gardens,
the sleepy susurration of bees will lull us to sleep
beneath the sly warmth of the mid-day sun.