We picked the last tomatoes yesterday,
anticipating frost which did not show.
But clearly autumn gusts have come to stay —
a presage of what winter will bestow.
Today we pulled the plants and stored the pots —
you sprayed the patio, I joked and teased —
and settled down with bagels cream and lox
and Sunday New York Times to spread and read.
A melancholy Piazzolla tune
was playing as you read the news to me.
Despite my effort, all that I impugn
came crashing through me unaccountably.
An edgy hint of peril permeates the autumn air
and never fails to prick an eerie mad despair.