— Barbara Saxton
As summer’s cabin door groans
on September’s rust worn hinges,
timid butterflies, unkempt wings tattooed
with amber frowns, rummage in
my ghostly garden’s clearance bins:
last minute shoppers
seeking nature’s final markdowns.
Did I mention Autumn and I
have grown quite intimate? Not only
does he enter without ringing
Labor Day’s bell, he spikes
birthday banalities with bursts
of gold and russet confetti. Huddled together,
we savor harvest sunsets that broadcast
our final episodes.
Change of seasons
Change of lives
Change embraced for nothing more
than its older, colder
Card message inside:
I’m still here.