Stepping outside after the first good rain of autumn,
I smell wood smoke from a neighbor’s chimney
as I survey the garden.  The apple tree is loaded this year
like never before.  Its dappled fruit has been washed clean
by this morning’s downpour. I pick one and bite into its
crispy-juicy goodness.  Even though they are nearly finished,
the big orange, red, and yellow Dinner Plate Dahlias sparkle
and sway. Heavy with raindrops, they bow in my direction.
The Aztecs used to eat the giant flowers and make pipes
from the stems.  I will wait until they lay completely drained
of beauty, then pull them up by the roots and toss them
into the yard waste bin.  As I do this I will say to myself,
I should eat these flowers, I should make pipes from these stems.
My thoughts are heavy with Ben today, my friend
who lies on his deathbed in Good Samaritan Hospital.  
When I visited him this morning, I had to do all the talking.  
He was finished.  Nothing left to say.  I jabbered about how
he wasn’t missing much at work, about the lovely view
of the foothills from his fifth-floor window, about
how lucky he was that his ex-wife Lucy was there
to pinch him and give him a hard time.  When I left
it was with an awkward wave.  I told him to hang in there.  
I told him I would check in with him later.  But what I wanted to
say was Ben I’m sorry you’re leaving.  I’m going to miss you,
brother, especially on days like this one, with Dahlias to look at
and apples to taste and wood smoke to smell.  I’ll think of you
each year in the freshness that follows autumn’s first good rain.