06 September 2013

Stroke of September





















The sky lifts,
Pale and clear.
The air thins,
Stretched and crisp,
Cool and energizing,
Like a freshly starched shirt.

Peach trees bow with fruit;
Cracked and crownless acorns
Litter the ground,
Crunching under foot and tire
As children head to meet the bus,
Or mothers walk and push their strollers
To that decided mile marker
That denotes the return home.

A blast of exhaust here and there
Punctuates that invisible, fumish haze,
More noticeable behind the eyes than it was in summer,
As buses, sedans, vans and trucks
Weave their ways through the neighborhoods
To join the endless caravan
That is the morning rush to school.

But not just that smell here.
The sweet, wild scents of scrub oak and meadow grass
Seem stronger also,
As when the rain comes
And turns the key on their fragrance.

And here a last breath of lilac.

Autumn as yet
No more than a blushing promise
On the mountains that surround us.

But the promise is there.

I think nothing ages so beautifully
As trees and mountains.
They seem excited at the prospect:
Here and there a rosy spot of anticipation
As they flirt with the season.

And ever the wind,
Stirring now from summer's heat
To sweep the season clean away
Before the first leaves fall.


I almost missed it. So quickly it all happened.
So orderly and quiet—
Like clockwork.

The year has struck September.



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