This afternoon, while shopping for scallions, 
spinach, and peonies at Proctor Farmers‘ Market, 
I devise my guest list—both living and dead—
a garden party composed of writers, 
artists, and musicians, carefully curated—
not one would send regrets.

The evening would unfold under fairy lights 
strung from trellis to fig to apple tree. 
The old walnut table at least ten feet long 
set with silver and stemware, 
in a warm color palette—shades from saffron 
to vermilion—ready to receive Coq au vin, 
crusty artisan bread, a clean, light salad. 

Guests would mill about, stand as couples 
or clusters, murmuring low or laughing 
loud. All together at the table, while candles 
burn low, conversations would bend into warm, 
rich beams of golden light. My imaginary guests 

would remind me whatever it means to be alive 
has something to do with the moment when sparks 
of trust and truth ground us to earth, to each other. 
Pleasures slow, honeyed slow on the tongue. Later 

a few guests linger on the front steps, what with 
the wine and warm evening, I would ask questions, 
intimate questions. Their fiercely honest answers
would cascade down the stairs, 
across the lawn pooling in moonlight.
                        

Too often, I forget 
to give praise
for the gnarled 
sweet potatoes—
tips curling like witches’ feet—
the Hubbard squash warty, blue. 
Vegetables that demand 
a little muscle behind the knife—
one of the earliest tools
used by humanity.

For a sky more blue 
than gray, and all the instruments 
in the drawer, especially
the Henckels vegetable cleaver 
that makes short work 
of dense flesh—
the rutabaga, not so much sliced 
as hacked.

Like a bee drunk on October
and fallen apples, I feel heady
with the success of a new recipe 
for Roasted Root Vegetables
with Tomatoes and Kale
simmering on the stove—
odor pungent as a cave. 

Praise for things 
that fill the need, 
the can opener—
one of the most necessary 
utensils in the kitchen—
and the essence of San Marzano 
tomatoes who open up
their hearts full of rich flavor.
                        

October, the sun reluctant to rise
and eager to set. A month fickle 
as witch’s dreams. A time to plant 
mums and deadhead daylilies.
Something inside me softens 
as I connect with the brilliant blaze 
of scarlet, tangerine, and saffron
leaves that burn bright 
as a comet trail.

A wedge of geese circle and honk
overhead, as if asking for directions. 
Something deep inside my bones aches
as the year’s harvest strikes a final note, 
the old wood ladder creaks 
along with my knees.
I reach for the final Honeycrisp,
the last tatters of the day—
that moment when time accordions 

into nothingness. The air, thinner 
and the silence more ancient, 
things hard to see in the shadows.
Sunflowers and dahlias topple 
under the weight of giant blooms.
I feel time’s heavy hand on my neck. 

Life’s been this way since dogs could talk. 
Some part inside me replays scenes
when laughter and music swelled in the garden 
and final things seemed as far off 
and improbable as the stars.