in this not really Indian Summer
already pumpkin snow

begonias frozen sticks
thawed now to sagging jelly

and now this halfway
return to what feels like early autumn

temperatures soaring bluebirds
and robins yet in bare maples

geese circling late afternoons
to drop into the State Fishing Lake

with half-a-mind to stay riding
the chop from warm south winds

and east of the far trail a single spray
of fresh goldenrod still holding

late September and I’m torn
between cutting it to bring inside

and leaving it to be a beacon
beside blown furze of aster, red switchgrass

straddling the seasons and my heart
divided into what was and what will be.