The strawberry plant’s crept
out of the garden plot
and rooted in the lawn.

Next almost summer
we’ll see what blossoms:
next almost summer
we’ll taste what fruits.

The only hints of fading:
a smudge of burnt umber
raw as an accident
a small flaw high on
just one maple tree
in the backyard:

and the shrivel of hanging verbena.
(I learned this year how
to deadhead the vines
to all season blooming
that now slows.)

I chose again not to rush
through September rain.
How much I’ve missed
how the mist filament sits
in a net of drops
distinct as gnats
or spider’s eggs
before enough have gather joined
to soak to my scalp
to flood down my neck
to drench my shirt.

---

John Walser’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Plume, Posit, Rust and Moth and the Bellingham Review. A four-time semifinalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize and a three-time Pushcart nominee, he is a recipient of the Lorine Niedecker Poetry Award. His manuscript of Chronoscopes is currently seeking a home. He lives in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, with his wife, Julie. 
         Twitter:  https://twitter.com/JohnWalser5

         Facebook:  https://facebook.com/john.walser