late summer

The zucchinis are a mystery. We plant seeds

at various places around the garden, all on the

same day, and some don’t even come up.

Some open to the size of an apple, a head of cabbage,

and stay there, existing but not moving,

until, late in the season, they are eaten by harlequin bugs.

One or two come up, grow, and just keep

growing, gracefully offering zucchini spears,

which we transform into ratatouille, pancakes,

grilled salad, curry. Poems are like that,

and fabric, too. Some days the words connect

the heavens to the earth like an electric storm,

Some days the best I can do is laundry.

The only problem is thinking it’s supposed

to be otherwise. Today I have a blue dress,

in a print I am fond of. And a zucchini, and these words.

It’s August and I’m hating all my clothes.

Or, not so much hating the garments themselves,

just nothing in my closet looks like what I want

to wear today. The season is dissolving. Yesterday

sitting outside with coffee I could see

how the sun has moved, already slanting toward

the south. In Chinese medicine we call this time

doyo, in the Celtic world Lammas. In our non-poetic

consumer culture the best we can come up with is

“back to school.” It’s still too hot for fall layers

but the crisp cool dresses of summer that go so well

with the bright burning season that’s kept us on edge,

seeking water and shade, those clothes no longer

resonate. These days are softer. The grape vines

that gave us shade all summer are going heavy

with ripe fruit. This is maybe the first time

I’ve noticed this is a separate season, requesting

its own dress code. How do I want to dress

for this moment of pause and sweetness?