In late October I put to bed the garden
and put to rest much more than summer.
Like last year, autumn felt too final.
Now in a year of two Indian summers,
November has played the April fool.
A hyacinth sends up green shoots.
Forsythias buds tentative above fall mums.
These past three nights of frost
have nipped anachronistic blossoms.
Nature resumes its customary schedule.
Why is it then that even as sky threatens snow,
I find among the rose hips, one survivor?
Breathing deep asynchronous joy,
I think of serendipity and hope.