September has come,
It is hers whose vitality leaps in the autumn,
Whose nature prefers
Trees without leaves and a fire in the fire-place;
So I give her this month and the next
Though the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered already
So many of its days intolerable or perplexed
But so many more so happy;
Who has left a scent on my life and left my walls
Dancing over and over with her shadow,
Whose hair is twined in all my waterfalls
And all of London lilttered with remembered kisses.

- Louis MacNeice, "Autumn Journal"

I looked at it critically
Was it red enough, plump enough,
Will it be juicy still?

Will it live up to its promises?
Nobody wants a dry peach.
I'd better leave it, I thought.
God knows what it will be like.

And then it dawned on me:
This is a peach in September.
Grab it, eat it - as quick as you can!

For this is September,
and peaches are rare in December.

Impossible to say yes.
Impossible to say no,
or okay I admit.
Or even - why not forget.
Impossible to think, feel,
understand, negotiate or haggle.
Aporia is a philosophical term
few people know how to deal with.

Renaissance you say,
and my heart sinks.

Too much and not enough
in the book, by the book,
play by the book, play
by the rules.

What Do I Know,
Montaigne said (allegedly)
And we all look and
say Nothing.

Talking to the great great grandnephew of Emily Dickinson
he quoted her poem Dear March, and added
"March is a great month!"
Oh really, I said politely
Let's talk again in April.