It’s strange to meet November wearing
September’s formal dresses
Of liquid gold maples, rusty oaks and 70 degree days.
I don’t complain.
Who knows why?
Cycles of nature we don’t understand?
Global climate change forced by humans?
At any rate my garden explodes in rose blooms
– one particular variety so fragrant it’s almost obscene.
I only take a moment to capture
The baby pink and
Before returning to the comfort of
The warm morning sun
On my white washed porch
To spend time with Mary.