It will not stay.
But this morning we wake to pale muslin
stretched across the grass.
The pumpkins, still in the fields, are planets
shrouded by clouds.
The Weber wears a dunce cap
and sits in the corner by the garage
where asters wrap scarves
around their necks to warm their blooms.
The leaves, still soldered to their branches
by a frozen drop of dew, splash
apple and pear paint along the roadsides.
It seems we have glanced out a window
into the near future, mid-December, say,
the black and white photo of winter
carefully laid over the present autumn,
like a morning we pause at the mirror
inspecting the single strand of hair
that overnight has turned to snow.
Well here it is just as the title of Haight’s poem says – this morning we wake to pale muslin / stretched across the grass. Pumpkins are planets / shrouded by clouds, a dunce cap on the barbeque. Leaves still soldered to their branches / by a frozen drop of dew are now colourful splashes of apple and pear paint.
He gives us a picture, a black and white photo of winter / carefully laid over the present autumn. Then he creates another picture, the morning we first find the single strand of hair / that overnight has turned to snow. Unlike our grey hairs, this snow will not last, yet it marks the inexorable changing of the season.
It will not stay, this early October snow – perhaps it has already melted by the time you are reading this. Everything changes, this thin muslin blanket now seems to tell us, so we must appreciate the beauty we are offered each day. It will not stay.