The days, sharp-finned, they plane

along the outer edges: bearing down,

shearing leaves from boughs, thin wrapper
of azaleas crumpled like an after-party

underfoot; summer’s glove peeled
from the bony hand— It plucks

without hesitation red fruit from green,
berries purpling at the rim toward dark;

and above, brisk wind and stippled clouds, wrought-
iron weather vanes swiveling south and farther south.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.