This true beauty, soon to leave,
I’ll pluck and keep you in my sleeve
To scribble down in a brimming poem.
The ripples quiet. I create my own,
As you throw out your tameless greens and blues,
For human hands to gather up and lose.
Heaps of curly kale and chard,
And dusk turns leaves to tongues of gods,
The touch of bark as I climb higher,
Among the cool of evening fire,
Even stones and streets are lush,
In morning’s dear and crystal hush.
Soon the flames of bloom will simmer.
And we will go inside for warmth.
Winter hugs too with gorgeous arms,
Because I know and note — to summer.