End of season

It is as I notice the half-used
garlic bulb on the window sill,
papers torn and frayed,
that my mind turns to the wild overgrowth
in the woods which we cannot tame,
the constant leaf fall over the deck,
which always needs sweeping,
the fact that you are not here,
and neither is anyone else,
that I again had hoped
to make one more meal,
during which we would be as we are,
and as we so much love to be,
not being willing to admit
what all the evidence made plain,
being left surprised and wounded
that now this house
must be closed up again,
and emptied.

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