October Rockhollow

The shadows cast oblong leaves across the garden,  
and in
drifts the Sun greeting trees and flowers as they strip away their clothes.
I pad, alone, quiet,
barefoot across the wet lawn
as if a newly born fox  
searching for prizes, washed out under rainfall,  
snuffling through sticks and piles of orange, brown rotting.
I notice the moments,
last, gasping breaths of Summer
swinging on the October breeze,
singing tales of warm, hot days -
how does Echinacea keep going
in this insufferable wet?
I set my basket down and begin
collecting apples from ground,
one uncomfortable
with yield waste,
place  
the last of the tomatoes in as well,
tell myself I'll make a sauce, knowing they're not
sauce tomatoes, more for plucking
at their peak and eating instantly.
Myrtle promises a decent yield, boldly widening beside the height of Salvia's deep blue waves -
and you, Daphne,
beside the water, scents lifting from your hats
gifted upon this world,
snapshots of you reflecting on the pond's glossy surface -
I swan up the path, back on the deck, under the lean to and up the concrete steps, scents, colours, life beating within my vessel, spinning new tales upon the mind,  
whatever happens, whatever hits me,
I shall never get tired of this.