by Christine Swanberg
Now as the last jasmine drops its flower
that tumbles in fallís tumultuous wind,
and hummingbirds and goldfinch devour
food kind humans leave for them who depend
on sweet water, cone flower seeds, suet
hanging on to the maple about to turn,
I canít help hear a snowbird call: Do it.
Leave this cold place awhile and discern
where heart and spirit bid. The tropics call
again this year against melancholy.
A bright beach cottage beckons me when fall
promises ice to come with the holly.
Again this year I will leave the Midwest
for I cannot pass old man winterís test.