The dragonflies are gone.
My old bent tree drips plums reluctantly and the feral cats
in my backyard sulk with solemn eyes watching.
The sidewalk-walkers, walk faster, wearing scarves.
The brown lawns replace their whiskered wilt
with new live-green growth. But the lawn mowers
have been put away
with the picnic tables and paper plates.

When blues and greens disdain my need
for them to stay, transfusions of cold oxygen devoured
ignite yellow and orange flames. Postponing drab.
I love their eloquent, wild, random, loud defiance.

Yes, I know September is slipping into October,
but I’m not ready. I will play soft jazz
as dirge of mourning - and attempt to ignore
the stealthy half-light gray shroud that –
muffles plop of rain percussion -
absorbs moans of decaying leaves
denies . . .“almost November”. . . briefly.

And on edgeless nights, after I have
boiled, and consumed the soup of grief of letting go
of longer days – I’ll listen.
If this is a lucky waiting -
The Canadian Geese will hoot and holler
good-byes.

And if I am not lucky,
my hot chocolate will just get cold
for the waiting.
It will rain gray, again, tomorrow.

by April Curfman