Wind ferried the cold
night in as you covered
things that would other-
wise die by morning,
fighting specter
with specter. Bird
of paradise, star
jasmine. Crib
sheets cover
the raised beds
now, curling
the weak fists
of their worn
corners around
the bodies of dirt,
tucking in wild shoots
and leaves’ mad
flapping. October
is so long from over.
How long will
October be. It is
as if it will never
end. But November
is in the roots
of the trees, working
its way to the leaves.