A Summer Place at Summer’s End

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.

 

 

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