Three clouds keep watch above a hill
as the sun leans into the west.
Brittle leaves of a dry August clatter in the gutter
as a wind drives them down the street.
The ochre smoke of July cleared some time ago,
displaced by laughter and bicycle chases on the playground.
Apples striped red and white hang on their limbs
under a crisp blue sky, sated by a long drink of summer.
August went on for so long with warm mornings
of poached eggs, bacon and apricot jam on toast
that it had to borrow heavily from September—snatching
sunlight’s mirth in order to keep the peaches growing.
September watched tomatoes tumble out of August
while hoping for its own big payout.
October collected early on a Thursday afternoon
when it rained from a few motley white patches.
No bucket will be big enough to bail out
the corroded neighborhood drains once the storms arrive.
In the morning, nothing will be left of September.
A few scraps of the last remaining light pass into darkness.