You took the hanging planter from its hook,
Summer’s done — the moving gets more tiresome
Every year. You pause to take one last look.
What cannot be packed is stored in its nook.
All is shining — there’s not a single crumb;
The garden has been cleared of vine and stook.
Soon ice will claim the song of silver brook.
You will be back when Spring again has sprung —
Each year you wonder if it’s worth the work.
The months ahead are like an unread book —
Sometimes winter is the best vacation.
You place your fleece lined jacket on its hook
and time begins again at chapter one.