The Blight

Farewell summer.
but not a blithe kiss from fingertips, 
speaking mercy within mercy.
a pinch instead, 
the bite of frost,
'good-bye' belies itself. 

The blight
ruins, wrecks, rots.
Final fruits of goodwill 
left on black stems
to fall instead of ripen.

will we meet again
next year, the ground 
restored by that same fall
to bear new fruit?

or the blight grow
into the marrow of the soil
a garden no more
but a barren patch, a scar,
an ugly memorial.