Mums Are Still in Bloom
October’s sign was a morning mist, burnt away
by the noonday sun, days that warmed
as the hours passed, ambiguity that gave me pause,
cracked open the cedar chest, and tentatively
pulled out my winter clothes.
Oh, I cringe at the thought: sweatshirt
carefree tennis weather is done for now,
all boxed and put away,1ike thoughts of basking on the beach,
or being bare as one may dare in one’s back yard,
that two more chilly seasons need be borne
before those sweaters, hoods and mittens can be doffed,
and shivery winter moments can be tossed.
But still, it’s not so cold, the air still sweet,
its taste leaves smiles upon the tongue.
Those mums outside are bright and yellow, and full in bloom,
and leaves, though turning brown, still stick like glue upon their trees.
Perhaps this global warming of which they speak
has eased the tilt to which this planet has been prone,
and the bluster of winter winds will not blow so hard this year,
and maybe we’ll even be spared those Gargantuan mounds of drifted snow.
Well, let’s bask in this, these illusions, while we may.
Just close your eyes, and dream
that time and space have twisted to our will,
the curve and quilt of seasons been redesigned.
But sooner will Martians, who’ve been hid away
at Grover‘s Mill, come visit,
or the sun go nova, and we’ll smolder.
No. I guess we’ll bear with it. Shut off the air, turn up the heat;
white flakes fall, and a crystalline beauty is reconceived:
Glistening trees and silver streets.