"november's garden..".

soft as dusk she comes
to lay her mantle
along the rows of what is left when all
that once gave color has been harvested
and all that remains lies dry and brittle
waiting for the last gasp of Indian summer

a silent "job well done"
the kiss she settles on each tired brow
gathered stalks now wheat-hued
with november's chill once held full
green husks heavy with summer corn
and sweet peas climbing to reach
the sun's promise.

"shh, shh," she whispers as cool fingertips
stroke weathered branches, ancient roots
and bark as veined, smooth, and spotted
as grandmother's hands

for some this will be their last dance
beneath a harvest moon,
for others just a an intermission before
the next season of spring green taffeta
and innocent firsts

"first shoots pushing through dark soil,
first buds along a supple vine,
first burst of red sun and warm seeds"
the lullaby she sings to them
 under a blanket of frost and fog....