Conclusions

The summer simmers down,
the singing ceased
of lacewing and cicada.
Until Spring
the insects sleep their sleep,
if sleep it is.
Perhaps the word is coma,
nature's way
of putting need to bed,
providing rest,
when rest is sorely needed.

Nights are long
and morning sunlight brilliant,
clear of fog
and snappy, as we say;
a time to sing,
take scythe to weed and thistle
until the sun
gets high enough to sweat us,
when we sit,
feel chilled enough in shade
to pull shirts on.

It's Halloween and hayride time again,
a time for masks and witches.
Leaves turn red
and blackbirds by the thousands
fill the trees.
These are the Baptist days
before the snow,
the days for work and laughter,
days that go
more quickly than we like
because of sleep.

At supper we remember,
sit and talk
of friends almost forgotten,
make a pause
to clear the porch and kitchen,
wash and sweep,
collect the foot not eaten.
Still not done
we finish filling jars,
pour syrup on
and twist bright rings
down tight.

Sealed jars we steam,
then line them up to cool.
Like jewels they gleam.
And so we sit and wait
for lids to ping.
Beside the stove,
where once there was a woodbox,
two dogs sleep.
We've no more need of talking.
Silence steeps
as tea does in a pot, except for chairs'
repeated creaks and pops.

Chairs have their say.
They provide a kind of comfort.
We breathe and rock
as apples in their kettle
cook to sauce.