Summer it seems
is over —
children back to school,
leaves dropping careless
on the lawn, roses laced
with Japanese beetles.
Petunias nod
in their sad pots,
and purple coneflowers
talk among themselves
of their imminent demise.
The hydrangeas are sorry
to see themselves disappear,
leaving only brown
blossom-heads ready
to hold winter.
The hosta, humble perennial
that fills shady nooks
with pale ruffles, will soon
recoil into the earth,
then awaken when called
by April’s rain.
How enviable their
temporary vanishing,
their magical
resurrection.
Meanwhile, the crickets
remember only the song
of heat and darkness
from their little room
in the hackberry bush.