Last night's frost
has hung the pepper plants
with black and cost
the zinnias all their color.

Beside the gate
among dry summer weeds
half-dead spiders wait
for colder weather.

Time to gather
marigold heads,
to tie together
ice-tight lengths of twine.

Tubers underground
may linger, but almost all
the green has browned,
stands tangled as balled twine.

Stiff hose, wire fence
must be rolled up, stakes
pulled and scraped. But diligence
is done. One waits for winter.

The rush to use the harvest
is passed; the daily watch
over change, relieved. Unrest
among the rows falls silent.

The peace that passed
when spring began descends
upon the garden. The massed
life gone, the cold ground mends.