September

September

This month cuts its own hair,
the trees’ dream of going bald
and old roses sport candelabras.
The mosses cannot hold on
as tightly as they did in June.
The forsythia droops like a girl’s braids
at the end of the first day of school.
Black-eyed Susans flirt over the heads
of dead-headed daisies.

The raccoons run off with both tassels
on the corn and the cobs. Our make do
is two carrots that remain from an entire
seed pack while dinner talk looks out
a smeared window to rehash what
we did at this time in July
before the turn shaved off our time.

 

[image: black-eyed susans, rudbeckia | darkmoon1968]

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