The first arctic blast is startling
in the last of summer
because we hoped some things
were forever.
It whispers snow into the trees–
and suddenly,
the common ground that was once so fertile
stiffens.

The leaves change at the first sign of trouble,
not brave enough for winter,
but aflame before they go out.
I am disappointed–
I thought they were better than that.

In bed,
you turn your shoulders against me,
sharpened like ice,
and it seems
there will be no more growing
this season.