You are my late September,
When spring has long been forgotten
With its newness, lush green and raindrops.
The rambunctious giddy splendor of sweaty palms
And arterial palpitations.
You are not summer, hot and dripping,
Air thick, smothering with inescapable heat,
Panting breaths and desperate lips.
Perhaps once or twice as we revolved around each other,
If night airs could tell tales.
You are not winter,
Though we have shared Decembers.
There is no place for you in my snow tipped trellises.
No coordinate in my circumference that would hold you in ice,
Frozen and forgotten under rippled white blankets,
Though perhaps, under wrinkled white sheets.
You are not fall,
When autumn turns the ground dirt and dull.
Trees shedding their raiments
And reaching naked for the sky.
Surrendering to the inevitability of winter’s approach,
Drawing sap down to their rootwork,
Waiting for another spring
You are my late September,
The earth still warm between my toes
With the remembrance of summer suns.
More vibrant than spring, and wiser than summer.
Leaves full of tree-song
Brilliant gold and fire,
Blood orange and melancholy yellows,
Blazing in defiant glory.
