

The poetry read like this:
Second Nature
Late September. The garden
has its daggers out-
bristle-armored moon flower pods,
the yucca's razor-edged lances,
phlox heads frizzy and brown.
The blazing dahlias elbowed out their neighbors.
Now they stretch across the cobblestones.
I remember summer's perfection,
the swirls of pink and lavender,
the pale green of new leaves unfolding.
The rose hips darken. Soon, everything
will be crisp and brown, and dry stems
will chatter in an early October wind.
Jana Bouma
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