september's people

i am september

and i feel my old bones, these loose clapboards—dry, cracked, crooked
the homestead's paint long vanished from the withered
boards, mournful openings in the roof like holes in a sweater
madly devoured by moths and months and a sadness revealing only empty space
rain drip dripping through and over the carcass' strewn remains
attempting to rinse clean gray futility
the wreck of time waiting at doors and windows, the trees
grass, plants, all of them fallen things turning back into themselves.

i am september

and i remember my darlings—sisters, brothers
sons and daughters—when we were young racing round
these golden days, chasing life
here i come, ready or not
laughing and crying out, seeking happy.
it's enough to feel our feet land on solid ground.

i am september

and i see the leaves drifting earthward, i smell their brittle age—
i ask you, just how many autumns have i witnessed?
a hundred? how many more?

i am september

and yes, of course, my name is september.
my mother chose it, my birth month.
she thought september stored up the good—
an offer of life in a harvest of dewdrops, in the gathering
bounty plucked from warm rain and sun
and the glory of summer days.

i am september

please excuse an old lady's ramblings.
brown and amber will cover me in the silent hours
but for today i am surrounded by all of you.
tomorrow a keening air tugs the curtain
and with a sigh is gone.