(repost from Myspace, Halloweenmelanie)
The last of the primroses has been plucked.
I’d have thought the buds were forever.
But were there a forever,
We wouldn’t love the struggling bloom so much.
The bud sits in a last mad glory,
On a table strewn with apples
In a house that begins to smell of cinnamon
And glows with lamps on earlier nights.
Posies give way to marigolds,
Pools are emptied and pencils taken up,
The clothing is neater, with starchy creases.
The world gathers, getting ready.
The last of the primroses has been plucked;
Autumn is on its way.