by Nancy Cummins Bierman
Change comes on the cusp of the harvest moon.
Mornings are dark now. And at dawn
a brash west wind romps across the garden
making the Goldenrod nod and bow.
Faded Bee Balm waves its ragged petals
at hummingbirds trilling their goodbyes.
Summer gone blowsy and a little fat
looks away to southward, yawns, and ambles,
a bouquet of asters in her hand, toward fall.