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 great contentment
as the buds and blooms of April
expand to share their bounty.
“It is good,” we say with sun still on our faces
and the breeze sighs, signifies its agreement.
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.
the senses rise to claim the sky
with wind beneath our wings.