We woke and the world was colder,
the season progressing steadily
toward winter— the line of trees
more shorn of green summer cover,
only the ivy persisting over thin-
skinned clover— as if the bones
of earth were chiseled finer,
our cue to take out sweaters
from the back end of the drawer—
And even the tiny moths I saw
alight upon the still-steadfast, still-
flowering clump of sage and lavender,
slowed their wings in the shadow
of the sun’s pale alabaster—
Nights grow longer; so we learn to keep
best what lasts through now and later.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
