The last of gardening for summer ends.
Hoe and trowel, knee pad and sunbonnet
Hang in the shed with the shears.
The final petals of the rose have fallen,
Leaving rose hips,
Like tiny crabapples
With a crown of rumpled hair
And calyx now dry and stiff
As a starched collar
Trying to hide the crimson berry
That stands erect upon the high
Seat of the peduncle.
I gather the petals for a sachet pillow,
And press them in books
To mark the poems I love
With summer's fingerprints.
Then make my tea with those rose hip
Berries and honey,
The last taste of the season.