Blankets on Wicker

The nights become cooler. October winds blow gently.
Leaves color and fall. At night, the heat comes on.
In the morning, there is frost on the grass.

The singing birds have fallen quiet.
Only the geese break the silence,
flying south in military precision.

You have not yet taken in the cushions
from the wicker porch furniture,
not ready to release to outdoor living you love so much.

Blankets litter the settee and chairs.
A silly thing perhaps, to hang on to the season
a bit longer than most, but there you go.

It has been a long habit of yours, not always good,
sometimes sublime, to cling to what is leaving
a bit too long.

About this poem

I really do have a tendency to hang on a bit longer than makes sense. To people and relationships, sourpuss jobs, lost causes. I do let go, just a bit later than more sensible people. It often has caused me some pain.

The good news? I never had to worry whether I had given it every chance.

I’ll take that trade-off.

Tom