POEM - Wasp

who mourns the aphonic death of a wasp in sleepy autumn light?
who weeps at the resignation of sunflowers standing guard over a field at day’s end?

markings of change go mostly unnoticed, blankets of snow
like starched pressed linen surround me and want a surrender.

the tomatoes are rotting corpses, horrific and crucified to neglected stakes
in theatrical poses rooted as a headstone in my bleary garden.

mummified stalks of day lilies with spackled gray stems make for fine kindling,
so I gather them with open arms and anticipate the fire I shall make.

the stars are glad to see the night come in sneakers, entering on tiptoes,
for they have been waiting all day to perform.

in the haste of the fluttering heartbeats of seasons we no longer honor transition —
like the hardy mum that smiles at me with confidence

convinced that the Fall would never abandon it
that winter will never come. never.