365 Days of the Poet: Petal 92, "September"
September Morn by Paul Émile Chabas
September has come,
subtle in her sapphire skin.
She’s slipped wool socks on August’s feet
and sidled to the front door.
At first I leave her waiting there.
I rush out to the back yard,
clinging fast to summer’s skirts
and wishing red into tomatoes
but September keeps on knocking
with the patience of the inevitable.
She knows that I’ll give in; grab a sweater from the peg,
greet her softly on the step.
When I do, her beauty takes my breath,
this maiden of Mercury
with frost on her hem
and forget-me-nots in her auburn hair.
She hugs me in her earthy arms,
smelling of cinnamon and wine.
I taste the sadness of Erigone in her eyes
and the deep joy of harvest in her heart.
I would offer her a cup of tea
but I know she’ll want to get busy,
so I take her calloused hand
and stroll into transition.
All around us shifts and changes
in the gloaming between green and gold,
while within I balance and crystallize,
honoring clarity and the coming quiet.