Until they think warm days will never cease.

John Keats, “To Autumn”

Like the faint semi-tragic scent of tea olive,
the epitome of ephemera, the butterfly flits
among lantana and disappears.

Hummingbirds hover; barred clouds bloom.
The retreating sun draws in its long shadows,
Then slowly dims the lights.

Bravo! Encore! Encore!
Four to six weeks the doctors said.
A sleepless night but then again the sun!