Poems for the ‘ber months

     September Poem

September slides slowly, 
summer cedes softly.

How thoughtful of time to show us
kindness at this juncture.

No scarcity of seconds
for pecan leaves to float
like lazy knife-boats, docking
within squares we've built of
plank and rock.

Time for us to rake and bag them, 
time for more to fall.

No slo-mo Vaselined lenses here; rather,
a baseline unhurriedness permeates the flow.

We fill the glass pitcher, add teabags, position it
under the sun.  Hours later, we carry it in.

The dogs bark and sleep and bark again; 
the mail comes,
and comes again. 

I've lost my taste for humorless pageantry.
I want to be with those okay with simple love. 

I'll take a walk to learn how to end this.
When I return, I'll show you everything.
           October Poem

October is O-shaped, a portal
an airlock, a cervix
a mouth blowing smoke rings
or pronouncing the second syllable in OM.

The end spirals closer, the spirals stretch farther.
The membrane thins,
The membrane thins.
          November Poem

November

didn't happen

like we thought it would;

nothing does.

Tennis ball is marshmallow,
blackberries are teeth.

Amoeba, it's your life to live!
Writhe and wiggle 
in the unexpected. 

"The glitter of your ring distracted 
me from thoughts of desiccation."

The wettest are the first to go.

In time to do nothing, we realize
the edge of that last slide has slipped. 
A new one does suggest itself,

but isn't yet in focus. 
           December Poem

Knives clatter
             December
                    
                   thick food
                            strong tea
                                     light snow

I saw an old friend.  Our direct speech sliced through time, but what did we say?
I tried on the cracks in sidewalks, cold smells and other people's urgencies 
like borrowed outfits. On the radio a woman described escape: in a book, 
a person leaves her life.

Because you have to, right?

My teeth taste unfamiliar.  Outside myself sister's window strong black birds carve 
paths from tree to tree.  Tonight, I'll fly home in a silver shell.  
Boy will my wings be tired.

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