Mid October
Gray clouds smudged into blue-torn sky,
frost warning and the first need of gloves--
in my hands, last gleanings
of our neglected garden plot:
the watering can, now needless, and
an armful of blossoms, cosmos,
late-planted, lavender pink,
easily bruised in this stiff wind,
almost unbearably tender.
Instinctively beautiful, the sound and shape of this fine poem: the interplay of G and L in "last gleanings of our neglected garden plot"; the delicacy and poignancy of the last line (I try it in my mind without the "almost," but I trust the poet's sixth sense, as she has consistently created works that enchant and that I trust will endure). And yes, this is my favourite time of year!
ReplyDelete