bad sunday haiku

it is sunday, and
the insistent tap, tap, tap
cannot be ignored:

fall begins too soon
and by fall i mean that which
fells me, in more ways

than several.  in
one short week, the struggle to
retain my summer

self begins, my sense
of balance challenged, and all
i reclaim every

august i will soon
fight hard to keep--knowing well
that it's a losing,

stinking, rigged game, its
shifting parameters too
dizzying to catch.

i catch sight of my
own reflection in a shop
window: darkened skin,

faded hair, winsome
look that takes me by surprise.
that look, that face...me,

a wild-looking thing,
like the volunteers in my
garden, the ones that

invite themselves, that
find the space that works for them
and thrive, blooming where

they land.  i bloom each
summer, a volunteer in
a strange landscape, far

from where i landed
first, decades ago and fresh
out of school.  this, then--

is this the lesson?
out of place, out of time, and
when out of season,

to seize a spot and
hold on until conditions
allow for blooming?

four o'clock on a
sunday afternoon, the light
changing as i watch,

the color of change
reflected in the yellow
coreopsis, in

lavender buds, in
the pink hermerocallis,
in everything that

bends and blooms in late
summer sun--light on my own
skin, which looks feral

in august, skin that
will fade before the first frost
takes the annuals.

this year, i take from
summer this thought: i am a
tough rebloomer, and

as fall claims me and
attempts to undo the good
works of summer, i

work my own magic,
living on the stored fuel that
august offered and

counting off the days
until coreopsis and
i both bloom again.