Summer was so hot, the little rain that risked
venturing our way turned to steam that hinted
of scurrying squirrels and campus bonfires, then
turned and sneaked back to the sky to impregnate
new clouds.  Short  on water, leaves shriveled to
misshapen fans that get hurt easily.  Breezes 
stay busy unpinning them from branches so they
can watch them tack like paper boats to the sea
of voyeurs waiting to trash November’s designs.

The rich cherry and jalapeno reds and sweet-pepper
yellows of last year’s extravaganza have given
way to thumbed tomatoes and bruised and
spotted oranges.   (Eggplant and potato-peel?
Really, dahling.)   Squinting, I spy the odd
model in last season’s va-va-voom hues totter
away from a table,  claiming to have gotten full
on a sprig of sun-browned greenery.  So thin,
the holly and pyracantha centerpieces hide them.
Seurat would have loved the polka-dot berries. 

Toward dusk, volunteers throw open the doors
and windows so we can watch plums, peaches,
and apricots  transform the lawn into a combination
Oriental carpet and Jacob’s coat of many colors.
Sky’s still so blue, you’d think October was allowed
to remain in charge.  Clouds white as untrammeled
snow peak like the meringue only a dedicated chef
can whisk.   Ahhhhhhh.  Soon be time for apple cider 
and gingerbread men with raisin eyes and grins
and M&M bow-ties.  Though weather readers
promise higher highs before winter creeps in, better
snap it up.  Already heard a “ho-hum yesterday.”

A persimmon leaf is drifting my way.  Not a spot
on it.  Cupping a hand, I catch it.  Looks good
enough to eat, but if I can find more, I believe
I will take them home and arrange a private show.
Lunch will have to be a la carte and the affair
won’t be anything next to Nature’s, but my poet
friends and I will use any excuse to ooh and ah.
Leave  greenery to sylphs.  We’re piggin’ out!

 

                 
                    (c)  Phyllis Jean Green, 2010

                            All Rights Reserved