We’d come to the compost heap to harvest a poke of genetically dubious
volunteer squash and melons.
Shot a shaggy shadow self.
Lifting eyes to the hills,
the compost enjoys a 360° sweep,
when the hay’s cut,
of all our ring of mountains.
Everywhere, first signs of the retarded deployment of fall colors.
October 15th used to be middle of the range for peak color
in the middle elevations,
but in this ever-warming century it’s past Halloween,
sliding towards Thanksgiving.
While, beside the monitor, the last of the color
drains from compost-ready cut flowers,
in splendid decadence.
