for Ronald

 

Winter coming on catches me at the sliding door

summing up blessings, fixed between you and the glass.

 

The vegetable garden is losing its summer blush

& the flower bed is turning back its quilt.

 

Shadows of the evergreens lengthen into afternoon.

The sycamore submits to the grass its finished poems.

 

And the grass fingers each leaf until snow covers them.

The grass is steadier than tomatoes, reminding you

 

of summer as long as it holds the word. 

The grass underwrites all that happens here,

 

hives worms, carpets feet, spreads a tablecloth for birds,

patterns a flag for the poet.

 

Winter coming on catches me reading the remnants of summer

watching the shuffle of autumn in our backyard.