Indian Summer
  
      The warm winds of yesterday
have cast a play of winter shadows
      over deep autumn ground.
Yet within my orchard garden
Chinese roses still fountain
to where they garland
      the golden apples.
Flowers in shades of red remain
to design the flight
      of the hummingbird,
while tiny blue butterflies battle the wind
for each diminishing bloom.
From my home beyond
I can hear the joy of Bach, embellished
      now and then
by chimes along the verandah.
A friend comes,
      and find
      ing me writing, says nothing,
      but hands me a leaf
      to examine against the light.
      Serenity'
s fragile grace
is suddenly shattered
      by a motorcycle
that turns my dog '
Bodhi'
into a dervish whirl
of barking protest.
Suddenly
      in him I see myself.
For while the contemplation of nature
smoothes the stream of mind
and reveals the wealth
of this leave of moment,
      waves of concern
      for the ways of this world
ever return,
to bestir my peace
      with sadness.
 
 
1983, 2004 by James W. Hackett