Late September

The blood comes in a rush
let everything fall where it will.
Jane Kenyon

The golden rod has dimmed and drags itself
toward the ground. Last week
tassels dangled in the wind. A woman thought
they resembled the braided gold
on her nursery pillows. She took this
as a sign and felt the season
would yield more than sumac
apples and leaves. Too much red
enflames the field and branches,
seeps through the moon's pale eye
and her underskirts sheer
as the milkweed's gauze.

All Summer, she chewed wild herbs,
prayed to saints and made love
at ripe intervals. Still, nothing formed,
only condensation on the windows
and dust on the cradle.

Patience withered
leaving these flowers heaped
rough and brown like burlap.
If she touches them, fingers
might be scratched, skin
barely pricked but drawing tears
constant as the rain
that flooded her garden last night.