An unanticipated searing hot flash
collides with her cool perspective.
November: her change-of-life moods
reek havoc with the vegetation.
One lone iris blooms nonchalantly
in the midst of coneflower seed heads
and withered stalks of daisies.
Balmy to frigid, she cannot decide
where she’s going, or how she feels
one moment to the next.
Her temper twists into torrents:
hail, wind, a rare tornado
etches its path across her landscape.
Frost bites re-emergent seedlings—
parsley, basil, cilantro wilt,
come back from their roots.
She’ll have her say, her way yet.
Crisp leaves crunch under her feet.
She scuffs them up, whips them
into fence rows. Laughs at her own jokes.
Then banging bare branches together,
skips and flees into the arms
of a fur-clad, bearded December.
c. Darlene Moore Berg