New Mexico Mercury

The last of the roses are on the bush,
one red bud caught in the brief dips into cold,
it's final form a tight embrace.
The other opening, opening, insistent and resolute,
bearing the last gleanings of warmer nights.

The last of the tomatoes are hanging on,
shielded by a plastic screen, double-tarped at night.
Most of one vine plucked a week ago, green in a box
in the kitchen with brown paper and banana peels
(for the ethylene gas, some alchemical cure, why not).

In the covered box, kale and parsley smug under their dome.
There, and around the trees, bulbs:
onions, garlic, and flowers for spring --
pink iris, ranunculus, crocus, allium.

Soon the leaves will fall from the apple,
leaving it terrifyingly bare. My little tree.
There were no fruit this year (an early frost took the blooms).
It soldiered on.

Each night I check the predictions.
Soon, a hard frost will come, and elicit winter sleep.
I'll stare out the window and fret, weekly dousing them
with water carried in buckets from my bath.
"Be brave," I'll whisper, but it's me I'm speaking to.
They know this plan, are very well acquainted
with the turning of the year.
It's only me, inside, new at this, needing patience,
Needing time.