It approaches in black boots,
stomps the zinnias, lays
bare the garden—tomatoes
limp on spent stems, peppers
dark with loss. Night comes
early, the sun a lazy arc,
her face white with cold.

The red of Virginia Creeper
fades, drops to the littered
ground, leaves a lattice
of bare limbs against the shed
wall. Deck chairs huddle
like guests abandoned
by their hosts, left to rain and snow.

Sleet will shine the windows,
polish the streets to the sheen
of old tables rubbed by love,
worn by elbows. Hands cradle
cups of tea while wind knifes
through every crack. Hurry,
hurry, something says
and we do—hasten all the day
but we cannot outrun it.