Well Chastened

How do I find comfort

in a cold autumn night

when the cloudless sky sucks

all the heat from my bones and

I strain to find a blooming flower in

an aging garden?

The chilled tomatoes rush to red,

and the last beans hang whitened 

and withering on silent vines.

The late planted flowers struggle

to be more than inch high

and even the birds visit less often

and sing of warmer climes.

Yet I smile in satisfaction,

watching what needs to die

make it’s peace at last.  

The future mulch seeks its

proper end in silence;

why should I protest if

even my past prime parts

follow the lead of plants 

obedient to the call?