A Toast

May the wine uncork the words.

The wind’s kicking up, carrying

Fall forward like a perfect spiral

Lobbed downfield, summer’s

Pass to winter, September’s

To November measured in

Leaves stacked upon yards,

Pumpkins on front porch steps.

A contrail hangs like a comet

Sliding down the western sky,

No one aboard aware they are

Being frozen in the moment

Like a fly in amber on this

Last night of a long summer,

On this last day of a week

Indistinguishable from the one

Before or the one before the one

Before except for the croak of

A heron sprawling overhead

On the way to roost and the

Absence of hummingbirds

Gone south, carrying away the

Warmth on their tiny, fierce wings.

Raise the glass to Friday and

A moment between what

Has been and what will be

And hold the instant like

Your breath . . . then release.

10/6/2023