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letra de september moon - michael rickelton

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the wrens have gone: that stuttering no more stirs
the clear airs of morning; the last of nine
once fledglings has departed. the green burrs
nestle pr-ckly in the grass; a scent of wine
drifts from the arbour; the warm garden smell
lies in layers beneath a heavier sun
throbbed through at noon by the crickets’ rackety swell.—
the saunter into autumn has begun
and through this opulence that drugs the sense
with wafts of odor and the cool burning
of scarlet tomatoes and the dense dye
of goldenrod, under this brooding sky
of cobalt blue, glides the shadow whence
all grief is born, remorselessly returning

- michael rickelton

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