.

It is October—autumn in Quebec City.
Cold by day now, colder still by night.
I stand alone in a square in the old town,
Not far from the restaurant with our reserved table.
I wait here for my wife and the couple
Who joined us on this tourist-minded trip.
The three moved on when my knee began to ache,
Too stiff to match their steadier gait.

As I wait, my eyes settle on a stately window.
Vines frame it, hugging the white-painted brick.
Their leaves remind me of Virginia Creeper.
(Could it grow this far north?)
A flower box rests on the sill,
A mix of annuals still in bloom, but just barely.
I limp a few steps closer, pain flaring in my knee.

I am this Virginia Creeper —
My bare vines cling as best they can,
But some have let go and droop over the glass.
My few remaining leaves dry in the afternoon sun,
And soon will all glide down to the pavement below.
Yet I’m proud of my tenacious remnants,
Now regal orange and gold.

And I am the geranium, the petunia, the primrose, and arrowhead,
Each of my blossoms now missing a few petals,
Yet those that remain still holding their color,
And their stems still reaching for the sun.