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Pleasantries of passivity before the pinch of shrill cold
ripples over the landscape in the suburbs of Buffalo—
before its trees crispin and leaves twirl about— giggling
like school girls, rippling in the claustrophobic dark.

My existence, contingent on three months: conceived
in January - a honeymoon baby, born in October, yet
September is pivotal to my existence as two sets
of twins were born,  one year and a few miles apart.

September is neither hot nor cold in the passing
of Spring - I must state that this intermediary stage
is not prosaic - its conjoined arm in arm seasons
for lovers, families, bundles of joy, apple of the eyes.

Climbing of trees, climatic offspring of seedlings,
sweet and sour opposites attract the saplings
and their mentors — momentous happenings
that thrill through muscle memories of September.

Outdoors to explore as air conditioners cool off,
as central heating waits in line, as school dances
erupt, and festivals bring their baskets of fruit
for those jiggling pocketfuls of change. Exchange

of hopefulness, the eye of the storm with its zephyr
zealousness— fertile ground of safety on simmer.
One honeymoon baby drifted South toward peaches,
pecans and the annual Yellow Daisy Festival.

Roots of September— my smile wide, in dungarees,
seasonal daring, my squeeze, and succulent sweetheart.
Hello September, a selfie-group hug, a gregarious greeting.
Slipping from Summer, swaddling into such colder winds.

9/18/2021

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