and in the chokeberry this year
         the first leaves turn ugly, there
                 by the open gate.

I grab the sweater you left on a chair,
         wrap it around my shoulders, and—
                 as I did for days last year until

I couldn’t keep up with the seasons—
         I pick every rusting leaf from the bush,
                 each wrinkled thing from our yard

and crush them in my pocket.
         It’s a simple gift for you—for us—
                 such an easy thing to do

for a few more days of summer.