The Way You Cling to Summer

The mid-October freeze beats the vegetation down
like a frost-bitten tsunami wiping out a small village.
Stalks burned by cold flames from the harvest moon sky
until their structure fails.

The Canadian northwest wind
wails, a thick crow-shaped cloud announcing the birth of winter.
Summer flees in the wing-beats of unnerved geese,
a v-shaped exodus against the frigid twilight.

Every morning you raise your yellow petals toward the sun
above the graveyard of mutilated tomatoes, peppers and petunias.
You survived the floral holocaust.

A rose. A delicate heart,
like feather-soft cotton.
An innocent expression dawns
as dew drops traverse your face.

Deep beneath that surreal facade
you possess a strength of will,
like a flame resisting water:
The last rose of summer.