The Wintergarden L Poem by Morgan Michaels

I know you don't care. Do you care?
when I call it uncanny, the way
they continue to continue, far into Fall
under a dim, day moon
under a denim sky of washed-out blue
cirrhus-streaked, here and there,
which means it will be cold soon
each little ball
opening like a fist,
crickets ulullating in the mist.

Opening sans-cesse
one upon another after another
whispering how the show must on:
purple cosmos; endlessly ambitious
blue convulvulus, all more or less
wrung from tendrils, less or more
conforming to the trees they wind upon,
dew-strung with little crystal pears
but never so delicious;

Hung between berries, that overnight
somehow have reddened bright, and shimmer-glinter
as if they meditated matchless summer-
that preferring, than to mull dull winter-
winter, such a bummer, such a bummer;
and those weird cactus flowers
blareless clarions that saprophyte
the green, offering blue their reds and white
like morning prayers.

Oh, ho, the summer....