WHEN we shut the house in Indian Summer,
The trees — half rouge, half mist — stood
In their leaves like sleepy women; the
Sun blew gently on our cheeks.
Yet, the
Porch hammocks, speckled with salt,
Still sway like querulous elephants
In the tight, appled wind, and an iron
Towel still-arms the yard. Late flowers,
Forgotten on the mantel, lean out in
A ring — old people peering uncertainly
Down from a balloon. Sandy stairs explode
Beneath our gleaming city shoes.
Now a bird shapes quick, cold marbles of
Sound, and stops. The moon shimmies on
The window. And the fire — laid, 1
Think, just before Indian Summer
Came — arranges bowls of heat among us
With slow, jeweled gestures, silencing
The hammocks, which seemed, a moment
Ago, to knock like summer tramps surprised
By the gulling, while-eyed frost.