Winter's Fast Approaching, My Dear

It seems like yesterday at Bryn Mawr
we ate Cortland apples on the green
the while two mutts played, one in heat,
and we laughed in our Calvin Klein jeans.

Soon there came baccalaureate masses,
sharkskin suits, silk ties, silk purses,
the sheen and currency of our ambition.
They matter very little now, my Dear.

You look so fine in your dungarees,
scissoring in the flower garden
to bring the last of the marigolds in
whose fragrance will fill these autumn nights
before the fire that too soon will flicker,
and flowers that will wilt one by one.

Come. The quilt's as light as a feather
on your nakedness to have and to hold
as long as there's heat in my skin, my Dear,
while the dim sun sets and the nights grow cold.