Every flower is ragged.

Zinnias once flourishing

in yellows and fuchsias

now droop, frazzled from

their work of bursting.

Marigolds crisped to brown

offer a few survivors

to bees and butterflies,

guests lingering

after summer’s glorious party.

I have consumed

all the season’s colors, remnants

strewn like faded confetti

about the yard.

Now I wander in and out of harvest dust

and smoke from distant wildfires

like a dragonfly dancing

in autumn’s dwindling light.

I too, am on a quest

for reassurance.

Equal parts light and darkness

with our southern hemisphere neighbors,

I want to hear my own voice

sing two-part harmony with a stranger.

But major chords bridge

to minor.

I feel my throat fraying as I float

away from fullness.