What is September

September is approaching and I feel as if I have been sixteen for twenty years. 

Here is the month when the days hold summer's warmth in their briefer hours,

evenings a prophetic breath of autumn. It seems in September,

something awaited arrives, perhaps the particular scent in the stillness of the quay. 

I will still make two cups of tea a day for the warmth that reaches my hands,

the feeling of self-directed kindness. I'm not used to it--

warmth and kindness both,

so I create my own when I can. 

When September comes I will have to lose myself, 

all of it, soft and bruising, 

blooming and unblooming the way it is impossible

to grow into something unstill.