This is too early! The lawn furniture is still basking in the yard, hoping for an Indian Summer. The boat is in the water, and a collection of flip-flops lay in a heap by the back kitchen door. October snows have been a rarity in recent years and I am woefully unprepared. Discombobulated. I feel rushed for time, late to the show. In his poem, Early October Snow, Robert Haight describes exactly how I am feeling this morning. I best not glance in the mirror.
It will not stay.
But this morning we wake to pale muslin
stretched across the grass.
The pumpkins, still in the fields, are planets
shrouded by clouds.
The Weber wears a dunce cap
and sits in the corner by the garage
where asters wrap scarves
around their necks to warm their blooms.
The leaves, still soldered to their branches
by a frozen drop of dew, splash
apple and pear paint along the roadsides.
It seems we have glanced out a window
into the near future, mid-December, say,
the black and white photo of winter
carefully laid over the present autumn,
like a morning we pause at the mirror
inspecting the single strand of hair
that overnight has turned to snow.