The Rhythms of the Seasons

Tonight, I moved the geraniums
inside to the diningroom.
Already, they are protesting confinement
by dropping pink blossoms onto my braided rug.
The back porch looks empty in their absence,
but the diningroom overflows with life suspended.
Green leaves so used to summer's spotlight
seem to close their eyes and sigh
beneath panes that filter autumn's lesser light.

At the supermarket I tossed matches
in among icecream and Shredded Wheat,
anticipating a fire in the woodstove.
Later, as I moved from window to window,
pulling the summer screens up
and the winter storms down,
I shivered, working quickly
to seal out the newly crisp air.

Somewhere,
in the basement, perhaps,
or deep in the walls of this old house
sounds the shuffling of tiny creatures,
instinctively moving inward
ahead of winter's cold.

Tomorrow, I'll haul wood from the shed
and stack it in the den.
Maybe add a wool blanket
to my four-poster bed.
I'll move sleeveless tops
to the cedar chest
and hang wool blazers in my closet.

There's a comforting feel to all of this
of the ritual of the turning seasons.
Even this first time,
in this new-to-me house
in this not-yet-known town,
I feel the ancient rhythms
stroking softly against time's passing.

Allegro and Adagio

Words tumble out of you
in a torrent of energy,
each one leaping
onto the back of the next,
fusing into white hot
thought knots.

Your stories flit,
meander into questions,
lose their threads,
pick them up elsewhere.

Your words bounce
like ping pong balls
and plunge
like kayaks through white water.
They flash
like swimmers in the fifty free
or sprinters in the 20-yard dash.

They slow, though,
as you take a breath,
move close.
Then,
they soften,
with you,
into the stillness
of the moonlit harbor.

Above us
stars and satellites and planes bound for Iraq
are streaming in the night sky.
The same moon
that waned
over the quickened pace
of the earlier evening
still illuminates the scene,
but now,
in a darkened gazebo,
with a single cricket
chirping out his solo,
adagio,
your mood shifts,
and you draw suddenly quiet,
as an evening's peace
descends.

The Full Corn Moon

Look up.
Be alert.
There's a full corn moon,
the moon that buys time,
keeps the place,
as we await
the autumnal equinox
and the real harvest moon.
That equinox balances
between day and night,
dividing itself equally,
portioning out sunshine and shadow,
presenting time with an exactness
far different from the nebulous hours
of the summer that precedes
the shift of season.

In the time
of that delicious season,
a hopeful lover
looked ahead to days
of slanting sunshine
and the warmth
of side-by-side bodies
on beach blankets,
of fingers stroking sunwarmed hands,
brushing glints of sand
from blackberry legs and arms.

In those lengthening days,
it seemed there would always be time.

Now, the corn moon rises
in air that bends with crispness
and begs for sweaters,
not swimsuits.

Perhaps by harvest moon's time
tonight's chill will seem familiar.
Perhaps that moon
will offer
an autumnal balm
to ease the pain
of summer's transition.