Elizabeth Waller

Last night’s deluge of rain
had left its grisly mark –
half the crimson tomatoes on the vine
were callously split open, their gaping wounds
sucked at greedily by
ravenous mosquitoes.

It seemed far too soon to be
gathering the last crop -
too soon to be
watching, waiting, for the
killing frost's lethal blow.

The glistening plumes of goldenrod
danced in the brisk September breeze.
The sparse petals of aster,
sprawled and twisted,
seemed a hollow echo of
spring's distant exuberance.

Over next to the rusty brick
of the long-abandoned mill,
the waterfall's thunder had
slowed to a trickle.
Soon, ice would still its voice
to silence.