(september)

September 9th,
I realize I’ve scarcely
noticed the arrival
of my favorite
month, noticed
but not observed.
Except to realize
I’d take at rip,
return & it would
be nearly gone.
Perhaps I should
always stay home
in September
and savor each day
like the last
of the white peaches.
When nights have cooled
if not the days,
and I stir back to life
after the sloth of
summer.
I venture out
clippers in hand
to see what has
survived
the ruthless heat.
In the bright months
the back yard
becomes enemy
country I never
explore.
The cherry apple
choking the citrus,
the lions ear bent
down to the ground.
This has been
an especially difficult
summer, not the
hottest, but one
that has enclosed
me in a bubble
as winter did.
Coult it be the coming
millenium that makes
these season so intense?
I do not know.
I only know the gentler
seasons seemed to have
slipped away altogether.
The winter wetness fell into June like a boulderr
dropped from a bridge.
Without interlude.
No time to plant
or plan, no time
to dream of delphiniums
or foxgloves.
And summer snuffed
almost as abruptly,
Time is an idea
I cannot quite
get used to.
Its demands
jotted down
on paper,
lists & listsx
& lists of things
I meant to
do.

9/9/99