The partly open hay barn door, white frame around the darkness,
the broken board, small enough for a child
to slip through.

Walking in the cornfields in late July, green tassels overhead,
the slap of flat leaves as we pass, silent
and invisible from any road.

Hollyhocks leaning against the stucco house, peonies heavy
as fruit, drooping their deep heads
on the dog house roof.

Lilac bushes between the lawn and the woods,
a tractor shifting from one gear into
the next, the throttle opened,

the smell of cut hay, rain coming across the river,
the drone of the hammer mill,
milk machines at dawn.
~Joyce Sutphen “The Last Things I’ll Remember” from First Words

I turn this seasonal corner, facing deep into autumn,
summer fading in the rear view mirror.

Even as the air bares chill, and the clouds sopping soak,
the riches of summer remain vivid.

Let me remember:
even if I too fade away, readying for the next turn.