Mid-August, I wake with my bones aching from cold that has seeped in from the open windows. Outside, the sun runs silver over white poultry trucks. Ambling tourists sway with their backpacks on one shoulder.
shoulders bared silver
weak for the height of summer
wintry sunshine
Not one leaf has turned, but already I dread the fall, knowing winter is not far behind. Another flashback. Another year’s end to sum up and find wanting.
RED GLADIOLA 