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.