It’s September—it has to be:

the calendar on the wall, the one you like

with pastoral photos of the Irish

countryside on every page,

says so.

But walk outside to the low growl of

air-conditioning units and see

children running in shorts

with no shirts

and the woman who delivers the mail

from a pushcart mopping her brow

with a ruby bandana.

I’m tired of summer—I’m weary

of life at its peak, of days

filled with sunshine, of spontaneous

gaity and ribs charring on the grill

and cold beer and the latest gossip

exchanged over backyard fences.

I long for autumn—a time of change,

a time for contemplation and regret,

of things winding down and tied together,

of roaring fires and cold northerly winds

that speak of end times and desolation

and upcoming winter that

will not be followed by the rebirth

of spring

this time.

 Words (c) 2009, Kenneth M. Rhodes

23 September 2009