the first leaves turn ochre, 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 season - I pick
every single rusting leaf, each fading flower
and hide them in my apron pocket: their crush
clandestine against my belly. It's a simple gift
for you - for us - such and easy thing to do
for a few more days of summer.