A poem about South San Jose at Night

these last gasps of summer breath
into sprinkler irrigated night
ersatz petichor for the passerby
whose cadence is slow and aware

prescience of the impending autumn
ripening between sun and treetop
threatening change but left unsaid
hinting wonders hiding the profane

South valley garlic and fires
Hint in deeper bursts of air
stirred Southwest lowers to land
Falling instants remembers to fly

wagering seasons we cant get back
But come with worry to be the last