A killing frost came
and went, leaving a thin veneer,
a midnight sheen
on several cars, giving the appearance of being newly waxed
without the lemon scent
or the look of lightly glazed donuts
from an old bakery that is no longer there
or five minutes up the road, fresh baked donuts from an apple orchard
and farm stand that is still there,
maintained by four generations, my daughter's first job years ago.
Pumpkins are stacked in dangerous pyramids.
Bales of hay become decorative, a maze for families and school groups,
ending with an educational tour of how they make apple cider,
with a free sample, guaranteed to persuade a gallon purchase
with no preservatives, a taste so sweet from fallen apples.
Although my red chrysanthemums died
from lack of care, during the last heat wave,
yesterday I managed to save a parlour palm, a Boston fern,
and the most stubborn pothos that sat or hung all summer,
somewhat protected on the front porch,
amidst worn wicker chairs under a ceiling that needs a coat
of paint before winter.