September
poem
Tuesday afternoon again, and the long
remembering of last year’s threaded summer days:
The apples swelling on the trees,
all heavy sunlight wound between the leaves
disturbed by sudden starling flights
and fat somnolent bees: I drink
from my glass and the air, all warmth, now creeping cold;
The day sits opposite and sinks,
laying itself to sleep in clouded gold
For now the year is young, and very old.
Lovely. Superb final line.