Nothing seems tormented in September,
Even the dying vines look satisfied
as the pumpkins in their fat orange splendor
It’s not just the promised rest that entices;
more like a feeling of success at having borne
the fruit of April’s hinting and then seeing
the sons and daughters give their approval.
“It is good,” they say with sun still on their faces
and the breeze, relieved, whispers and sighs.
Contented is the shade of harvest season,
Earth’s breast is pinned
with chrysanthemums and delphiniums.
Maple leaves splash flame amongst the rust,
Wild geese honk a great anticipation.
Who among us
has never known a longing
to claim the sky
with wind beneath our wings?