Seriously, I know it’s not September.
It’s just that September cannot come soon enough.
This Summer heat beats down on me.
My flesh is damp in response to the roasting
I’m receiving, and yet, is not nearly cooling enough.
Don’t get me wrong: I don’t relish the idea
Of being that much older. My birthday will come
And remind me of the way my aging thrives.
Still, September cannot come soon enough
With its changing colors and cooling evenings.
That is why I long for September.
And even that longing for other than now
Is a potent reminder that the now is what is.
Drenched as I may be, no one promised me
Let alone the month of September
That has not yet come.
…or how about on Twitter? or Feedly?
music of the muse
Like to leave something in the tip jar?