The End of Summer

Suddenly that great sadness of coats.
The echinacea turning pale, ragged
around their corollas, into big pincushions.
The black edges of the tickweed.
Suddenly, it seems, the large-headed sunflowers
like Abraham Lincoln near the end of the war.
Stooped. Staring at my feet. Inside the house,
the five white boxes my mother sent
of things I said I’d wanted, which
I’ll have to make room for now, and which
she was glad to hear had arrived safely.
Somewhere among my container garden,
the one praying mantis who made it through
will appear soon, usually as I’m watering things
out of habit one cool morning. Suddenly
will race toward me like a strange horse.