SeptemberHartley ColeridgeThe dark green Summer, with its massive hues, Fades into Autumn's tincture manifold. A gorgeous garniture of fire and gold The high slope of the ferny hill indues. The mists of morn in slumbering layers diffuse O'er glimmering rock, smooth lake, and spiked array Of hedge-row thorns, a unity of grey. All things appear their tangible form to lose In ghostly vastness. But anon the gloom Melts, as the Sun puts off his muddy veil; And now the birds their twittering songs resume, All Summer silent in the leafy dale. In Spring they piped of love on every tree, But now they sing the song of memory.
“But when fall comes, kicking summer out on its treacherous ass as it always does one day sometime after the midpoint of September, it stays awhile like an old friend that you have missed. It settles in the way an old friend will settle into your favorite chair and take out his pipe and light it and then fill the afternoon with stories of places he has been and things he has done since last he saw you.” ―Stephen King, ‘Salem’s Lot
"But now in September the garden has cooled, and with it my possessiveness. The sun warms my back instead of beating on my head ... The harvest has dwindled, and I have grown apart from the intense midsummer relationship that brought it on." - Robert Finch
“Try to remember the kind of September When life was slow and oh, so mellow Try to remember the kind of September When grass was green and grain was yellow Try to remember the kind of September When you were a tender and callow fellow Try to remember, and if you remember Then follow”
“But now in September the garden has cooled, and with it my possessiveness.
The sun warms my back instead of beating on my head …
The harvest has dwindled, and I have grown apart from the intense
midsummer relationship that brought it on.” — Robert Finch
For All
“Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.
Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.
I pledge allegiance
I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.” – Gary Snyder
Maverick Mist 