Morning’s path stretches east and glitters off mottled waves,
its ascension point drifting south every day.
The season passed, the lake green.
Fall tips into the air,
and drops off its perch in the stars,
leaving yellow and red where it tumbles.
Ferns brown, bank green vitality for next spring.
Canadian haze migrates south and cloaks the rising sun with a deep red veil,
smoke woven in its fabric.
The lagoon, rich with life,
choked with lily pads and tendrils of milfoil,
stagnates each boat’s passing.
Twilight exits quickly,
and pulls the next languid day after it.
Evening fog slides under the door
and through the unclasped window.
Bird song quiets – the Martins gone.
Cool nights reappear and brush the blankets with a finished scent.
Soon, the fireplace lit.