by Jack Ridl
The obligatory nap has disappeared / into the light that falls after 4pm. / It is time // for the sweet blue of cornflower, / the muted p
alette of mums. This / is something I love: the season // between seasons. I feel at home / within this turning, summer's heat / dwindling into the mellow nowhere // of sixty-five degrees. Cold coming. This / space with no particular demand, no / order to cultivate or repair, no wood // to bring in, no seed to plant, no need / to hope. Just here, in a safe hint / of later: cool inhale, the gentle // clatter of acorns on the porch roof, / the chattering argument of squirrels. / There is a certain stillness in this small world, // the light lying across each unshaded / petal, rock, branch, the faded paint flaking / like haiku from the two chairs in the garden.