If once I chose the rush of spring wind
or the restless, lapping, push-to-the edge
of summer waves— I’m older now. I rescind
those choices. Falling leaves tick like time around
my shoulders—who does not love this slow, bright
burn of color? I knew before, feel now:
each step I take, I take into a moment
that will not come again. My garden’s
nearly done: beans are sparse, everything spent
in an effort to love the warm earth and the rain
whose dark/bright cloud shadows roll over all,
brief as dreams. Only the pumpkins remain
strong. Those ribbed lanterns holding a stash
of seed-coins for next year, a promise
they mean to keep.
© by Paula Schulz.
Used with the author’s permission.