In Ambiguous Praise for Seasons

It is that most difficult time of year--
mid-September in Minnesota--when the sky
has grown gray, before the leaves turn,
when friends who cannot bear bright day
turn their gentle depression to ambibuous praise
for how much they like having seasons.

The best view from our hillside house
is from the top floor, overlooking the valley
where the Minnesota River joins the Mississippi.

For variety, I faced the ironing board west
and north, and watched the gray line at the horizon
spread, not so much by moving as by oozing
over the Twin Cities, as if the air were water,
and the water became gray. Somewhere in the gray,
gentle thunder growled, scaring raindrops down.

The shirts are hot from the iron; damp from steam.
They are seasonal shirts, short-sleeved,
summer-colored, and I hang them on thicker hangers,
thinking they shall have to hibernate three-seasons,
while I try to call up ambiguous praise for having
four seasons, somewhere at the horizon.

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