WATERMARK

It’s not yet September
but the morning light
pales winter-dim. Forests
burn; our air thickens
with ashes and smoke.

I’ve pulled the rugs,
blankets, long-sleeved
shirts and heavy sheets
from the dark backs

of closets. There is no

poetry in me, only
lethargy and pain.
I resist, resist, this
cooling season. Vines
still bend with ripening

berries and yellow plum
tomatoes; honeysuckle
and roses bloom their final
flush. The parakeets sing
from their ornamental cage.