September is hers

September has come, it is hers
Whose vitality leaps in the autumn,
Whose nature prefers
Trees without leaves and a fire in the fireplace.
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 littered with remembered kisses.

--Louis MacNeice


September is hers.
Her own season, the season without a name
that falls between the other four.


The quieting time, late fall.
Leaves fall, turning brown to green,
But the hillsides are reversed.
Dead summer grasses
Seem to grow mossy color,
a three day’s growth
Of beard…
After the first rain, that emerald creeps in
Reversing the field from green leaf
Against gold hill
To black oak branch
Against curvy verdancy.

We walk
Laughing at how that fold of hill
Resembles the curve of a woman’s thigh, or hip
Kisses like leaves
Forgotten where they fall.


Winter is not snow, but monsoon season.
Wind gusting, branches pulled horizontally
Water driven in under the door.
Ants
Crawling up out of cracks
To escape their flooding cathedrals
Underground.

We wrap ourselves in plastic, head to toe
Go out laughing, to stomp in gutters
Watch the storm swirl away.
Back inside that contrast of heat and light
And comfort,
That tingle as
Your chilled fingers start to warm.


Spring is not gentle, but mighty
And muscular,
Plants surging up from underground
Suffused with scents and cherry blossoms
Drinkable air.

The students wear no clothes
Or as little as possible.
Navels, shoulders, hipbones, thighs
The girls in their summer dresses.


The summer is a burden
White heat, shimmering air, siestas
The baked hard silence broken by a sharp bark
Dust devils. Stepping outside the air
Hits you in the face, a blow
Unmerciful.

The fan turns sullenly.
We can almost not bear to touch
The heat is so intense
Except to bear not touching
Would be even harder…


Then harvest season.
September is hers.
Fall has two stages, fifth business.
This is harvest season. Ripe red tomatoes, so
Fecund and juicy they will not slice,
Structurally unsound.
Grapes hang from an arbor, like
So many tiny breasts or nipples
Bursting with sweetness
Running down your arms.

We eat out of the garden
Wake up chilly after falling asleep
Still
Twined together
Under the fan
The cold an unfamiliar sensation.

Golden light slanting in from the west
Long days, but growing shorter
Waking up to twilight
Craving your breath
Against the back of my neck.


September is hers.
September is mine.
My own season, the season without a name
that falls between the other four.