Now the shrubs are shriveled, closed
umbrellas waiting to be opened —
and the grass is drawn dry,
the color of the hills
in the Highlands.
It’s the last of the 8 o’clock sunsets until next April
they said — we burned the last of the plum tree,
watered the beds —
the geese cry to leave,
as do I.
Inspired by a post yesterday at the splendid blog, Moss and Fog.