Friday the 13th

This year’s hard work falling, rotting. The rain is stripping you of your yellow and red leaves, hurrying them to the ground. I know it’s a phase and soon I will see only your bones as you rest, waiting for warmth.

Jonathan

The rhubarb obliterates itself this time of year, torn yellow leaves wilting all over the fig bed. Everything is damp and dying, except the Pacific bleeding heart across the way. And the ferns. And the moss. And the evergreen strawberries spilling into the paths, and the strawberry tree, which sits like a fat shrub.

Sunshine