Suddenly, September plunks herself down in the meadow.
She spills Queen Anne’s Lace and goldenrod everywhere.
It’s not that she was unexpected, but I had pushed her
way over there in my mind since she signals the advent
of the cold half of the year. Now here I am, knee deep
in late summer wildflowers, glad despite myself,
the child in me dancing giddily to the shrill sawing
of ten thousand crickets and handsome insects
everywhere, feasting. “It’s another whole corner of heaven!”
the dancing child shouts, and my wrinkled face smiles.