poem

End of Summer

September and the days are getting shorter. 
I hear a smattering of applause from the leaves
As a cool evening breeze wends its way
Through the line of trees behind my house
As if to say: good enough, not bad at all.

But they’ve been clapping hard all summer
Turning themselves to the sun
Celebrating storms and sultry humidity,
Soaking up as much as they can.

Maybe they know the score

And feel the elapse of time

Maybe they know they have arrived

At the end of a designated line

Maybe they’re just tired now.
Maybe they’re just done.

They’d stand for an encore if they could
But they notice the chill as well as me.
Soon begins the yellowing senescence
The lovely forgetfulness just

Before a slow wafting fall.

For now they tremble in the trees.
I hear them even when the air goes dead.
You’d be a little fearful too,
In that moment when you know
The line is actually a circle

That bends back to its beginning

Which means it goes nowhere at all.

This is all projection, of course.
The leaves have always known.
Leaves don’t need the solace of summation.
Instead of projection I’ll write a poem
And say the leaves are just waving goodbye

To the honking geese overhead

Departing in perfect veed formation.

9/5/20