Footballs fly from hand to hand. But the swallow show is over. The municipal pool is shuttered. The Providence streets are cluttered with the college bound. Yellow buses flash amber and red. Leaves cling, as best they can, to their greenness. August heat dissipates. September warm feels the part. Flowers still open and close but gradually lose heart and faith. And the weeds that survived a summer’s worth of plucking and poisoning have frost in their future. But it’s the light that has the most to lose. Darkness moves in on it from both sides. The glowing red of its sunsets is more like last rites. According to the poets, it’s September in my life also. Much of its tropes apply to me as well: the heat calmed into warmth, the complexion of the light, and knowing what’s to come and the compromises that go along with it. And yet, September’s still my favorite month. Unlike the promise of Spring, there’s the reflection of Autumn. I gave up promise long ago. But I enjoy reflection. It tells me how I live.
About the Poet:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Dalhousie Review and North Dakota Quarterly with work
upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram and failbetter.