I have a new view of the border between
summer and autumn or
autumn and winter
fireweed blazes russets and cinnamon at the edge of the lawn,
a sea or the near view still far off because of what may hide
in the dip.
I have a new view, transitory like the scene from a car
speeding through seasons, the Amur chokecherry garbed
yellow, flagrantly shining amarillo, briefly worn
for the one-day party before going naked, branches.
Already I see a carpet of leaves in the wet grass,
the Amur shedding—
as if a fish shrugs off its scales and becomes just bones.
I see the crabapple hung dense with clusters of tiny pommes,
red as if cranberries were hung in trees by a mad decorator
with excessive fancy for minutiae of scarlet globes
birds eat in January
and spread seeds without cataloging or even knowing
what is the cause and effect
and in spring somewhere at the edge of the yard
I might see a crabapple sprouting up from the grass.
It is luck to be the one that grows.
It is luck to sprout beyond the cut
of the lawn mower’s spinning blades.