For the End of Summer

a sonnet

In the author’s garden

The garden reaches its apotheosis,
In doing so gives purpose to our eyes,
As vines and flowers twine now in such closeness
That Winter memories seem to be poor lies.
The bumblebees sleep gently on sunflowers,
The sparrows wake now, flying in to feed
On insects breeding in the nighttime showers
And on late Summer’s banquet of wild seed.
These leaves, these root crops, fruit of many kinds
All sprung from tiny seeds…