This is how the night finds its way
in through the open window: without
asking. It has already been to Finland,
Georgia, Ohio. And the cold front, it is moving
across the land in the same unapologetic way,
only in the opposite direction. There
is shrivel in their meeting, like a woman who
is too tired to stand ever again.
Out in the garden, the basil,
the marigolds, the cosmos,
the beans, they do not put up
a fight. They just let the night and the cold
do what night and cold do midsummer.
Their leaves droop and darken,
limp flags of surrender.
This is what the end looks like
sometimes. No blush, no gasp,
no inheritance. No trumpets,
no angel band. And no one declaring
victory. Just a quiet, sad plot that only
hours ago was blurting life, so lush,
so full of tomorrow’s seeds. Who are we
to shake our fists. It’s not personal.
And though we may be tempted to run
the other direction, if we could find it,
we know we are somewhere in a line
marked Next. No. Better to stay right here
and tend what still grows, the parsley,
the peas, the tiniest bits of pale green kale
still pushing their way through the cold ground.