The Two Chairs in the Garden

The obligatory nap has disappeared
into the light that falls after 4pm.
It is time

for the sweet blue of cornflower,
the muted palette of mums. This 
is something I love: the season

between seasons. I feel at home
within this turning, summer's heat
dwindling into the mellow nowhere

of sixty-five degrees. Cold coming. This
space with no particular demand, no
order to cultivate or repair, no wood

to bring in, no seed to plant, no need
to hope. Just here, in a safe hint
of later: cool inhale, the gentle

clatter of acorns on the porch roof,
the chattering argument of squirrels.
There is a certain stillness in this small world,

the light lying across each unshaded
petal, rock, branch, the faded paint flaking
like haiku from the two chairs in the garden.

~ Jack Ridl