I feel like September most of the time.
Not too warm or cool,
not more of one thing than another,
barely discernable between
the hot haze of August
and October's sobering chill.

There is a certain dexterity needed
to balance the life with the death,
to be a ghost in time and place
and memory, together.
And if you look into the morning fog
and squint your eyes to see me,
then you are trying harder than you need.