When summer is cooing a sultry swansong,

a chorus of cicadas, crickets, and a lonesome frog;

when in the midst of abundance, scarcity lingers,

and radiant heatwaves yield to a chilly fog;

when the rudbeckias and coneflowers fade,

and goldenrod and late asters paint the meadows topaz and sapphire

and primary colors are darkened and tempered

when sunny spaces turn to a darkening fire;

the butterflies seem to sense a quickening,

flyng, butterflying from calyx to calyx, petal to petal,

up and down like the notes on sheet music,

as if unsure of where to settle.

What is being offered is Plenty, a bounty bestowed.

The season of nectar and honey has receded;

the last table is set, the feast is prepared;

nature serves and is served, as needed.