Autumn rushes.

I go down to the garden between bouts of rain with tools and plans
all assembled in the wagon, ready for
this and that
but just pushing
that wagon is enough to
tire arms and legs and disposition.

I'm not going to get much done today.

The flight of birds and kites over the lake put me in a trance
about youth and ambition and plans for a lifetime
places to get to, things to build
refurbish that bathroom, submit that play.

Nobody else expects me to finish anything.

So long ambition, I cry out to the wind that masks all human voices these days.
So long plans for a new shed, as the space that shed would require
contains buried asparagus roots, waiting for long seasons
of wind and water to coax its tender tendrils.

How can anyone expect to finish anything with this kind of weather?

But the planting, the weeding, the piling of leaves need to happen
before the rains, the winds.
I must tie the roses and the young trees so the winds
don't tear them out of the soil, destroy their ambition
to live another season waiting for the sun.

A sudden squall sends me back indoors before tools are gathered and put away.