I came to see what died. The beans slump and yellow on their trellis. Squash vines wither toward the earth.
Others are here too, dawning their flannel and quietly harvesting what remains.
There is truth in death, truth in the seasons.
Truth maybe even in my yearning to participate (some blue fire is inside this grey-green landscape).
I hold my breath as if the seasons could reverse:
We are jumping in the lake and harvesting ten-pound squash.
Laying in a circle under the stars and laughing into the night.