If once I chose the rush of spring wind

or the restless, lapping, push-to-the edge

of summer waves— I’m older now. I rescind

those choices. Falling leaves tick like time around

my shoulders—who does not love this slow, bright

burn of color? I knew before, feel now:

each step I take, I take into a moment

that will not come again. My garden’s

nearly done: beans are sparse, everything spent

in an effort to love the warm earth and the rain

whose dark/bright cloud shadows roll over all,

brief as dreams. Only the pumpkins remain

strong. Those ribbed lanterns holding a stash

of seed-coins for next year, a promise

they mean to keep.

© by Paula Schulz.
Used with the author’s permission.