A Commendation of September Light
Hymnals of light in the autumnal woods
shafts of sunlight
printing prayers on every shadowed trunk.
Only September has this light,
October will come with a witches broom,
a stiff switch to scour and scythe,
that light will be a death song
one sung by ancient and native winds.
For now, maybe just for this day,
the woodland acres glow
they seem to tremble slightly
as a gentile sunlight
ushers in last rites and blessings.
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