Turning

The year, it is ending. Space-memory pulses, remembering
the scorching summer that followed a fecund spring.
The sun, in fact, ran wild in midyear.
Tomatoes were explosive orbs hanging heavy
on the vine. Lettuces ran exultant. The dandelions
marched, in numbers enough to make wine.
Cottonwood went airborne. Grasshoppers napped and
monarchs (haughty in obsidian and cinnamon) hovered in
royal languor. There were noons without number, fleets
of parasoled cocktails, endless tumblers of Coke.
Summer, you were a dream. You were fission heat and nuclear
light, a solstice without surcease.
Now, sleep begins. The squirrel scales back
his high-wire act. The wheels of the year
are turning. He, furled on his drey, gorged with seeds,
cares not. There is plenty of time to sleep
to dream. The world contracts around hearth and home.
Too soon (or not soon enough?), it will be spring.

Lou