When the late-day sun
sent a shaft of light
through my old screen door,
I saw the places
where the paint has peeled
(such felicitous light green paint!)
and the eye-hook latch
shows signs of rusting.

I changed the screen
not long ago,
yet three rough holes
disrupt its hazy plane
like insects in a web.

Outside, the autumn air
troubles the tired green
canopies of elms and oaks.

Summer lingers in little ways:
The blue cotton rug
inside our threshold
sits warm beneath a
slanting square of sun;
the lawn outside is dry
for want of watering.

Soon the breeze grows cool,
and when I go to
shut the door I see
a single strand of  gold
the wind has found to tease,
held fast for the moment
by the ragged screen.

You left today,
and now I feel
the autumn’s chill
more deeply in my bones.