Winter moths 
have begun to show up
on our entry way
and it’s only October first.

Maybe ten tomatoes 
across every variety 
I planted hang out
on my yellowing plants. 

Early birds and stragglers
make for stability — bookends
hold stories to account, keep
a tendency to ramble in check.

I wish I could take back
everything I’ve said 
to honor chaos and excuse
dysfunction. There is neither.

Instead there is 
unfathomable order.
Instead there is
late harvest. Moths

congregate, reminding us
this too shall come and go
and come again. Every little thing
repeated in my lifetime.