Isolation sonnet, 11

I’m going to insist it’s still mid-September though the equinox is, what
only two days away, and the temperatures are now plummeting
either because the fires burning up the west coast forests
have left a fine layer of sun-filtering soot nearly invisibly above us
or because generally the climate, the fronts, the jet stream, are all
royally screwed and we both know it’s anyone’s guess what the highs
next week are going to be.
                                                       So I get up and slip on the slip-on shoes
as darkness settles, an old jacket, grab the weird flashlight light bar
thingy, and haul one-two-three-four big pots of deck tomatoes over
to nestle alongside of the house siding under the weary eaves, then
one-two smaller jalapeno pepper plants in their smaller pots,
and finally carry, staggering a bit, the three now overgrown houseplants
that have spent the whole summer outside glorying in the stupid heat
around the house to the garage. Where they will be safe, from frost at