by Mark Gilson

One day the leaves are gone.
And the wind makes dying sounds
within the humbled branches.
It is time.
The slow earth yields its precious heat.

In a cold hush before the sun
our garden perishes within the arms
of a stranger.  Vain, inexorable, patient,
He chalks his victims
in a pale and savage dust.

Marigolds and sweet alyssum
wither uncherished beneath the brittle weeds
that overtook our nobler intentions
in warmer months, when we were young
and soon distracted.

Rain, snow, frozen soil, the way
the blackbirds undulate across drab
sheets of grey sky in curving
arrows toward the recent past…
so many things go unremembered.