September raises such thoughts…

…along with the scent of damp leaves.

September defies writer’s block. You simply can’t have it. There isn’t time. There isn’t time to be coy or to hold back your heart. leaf sceneIn September you want to give your heart to everyone you meet. You want to run down the street with it. Instead, you write it down.

In September your mill overflows. In September you haven’t time for the waiting game. You are a writer running out of time.

September is about time. Time for the hunt. Check the trap line. Back to school. Back to the office. Piano lessons. Soccer in the cool evening. Excuses and self-pity do not belong in time.

Someone said, a writer has to have a sense of history. Another way of looking at it: how time doesn’t exist in the usual way we think about it. Yesterday is the same as today is the same as tomorrow. All time exists in this moment. All time exists in every moment.

Take hide and seek, for instance. The children in the squash vines after supper. Dusk falling early like a sparrow. That’s you out there in the trailing squash, behind the shed.

Echoes of a fugitive life. You waited for someone to find you. You wait for someone to find you. You will wait for someone to find you. September echoes.

A woman moves through her shadowy rooms at dusk, picking up and laying down things for tomorrow. She is the woman who straightened the cave for the night, who banked the fire, who checked on her sleeping children. The same woman who set the porridge to soak, who put out the cat. My grandmother, myself, my granddaughter. I follow the footsteps. We go out onto the balcony to look at the night and the stars. The moon. A full moon. The migrating moon. The same moon that shone down on my grandmother shines down on me, will shine down on my granddaughter.

leaves               My mother with her flashlight

tiptoes through green

voluptuous vines. Steps lightly

to protect the wide-hipped leaves

that provide her fruit, glowing amber

to warm us through winter.

The smell of rot and worm powder, the herbal scent of leaves. Once I hid between layers out of line. Storms stacked against the house. Windows for winter. Glass on glass, frames within frames. Just in the way the light fell from the window above, reflecting several visions of me in the glass, a parallel universe opened before my eyes. I understood the way it works: how several versions of me can exist at the same time. And if several, why not more, why not an infinite number of versions in an infinite number of universes all at the same time. How I am here yet there. And there. How any given moment contains all moments past and future.

Face and dress white

haloed in her own brilliant light

she stands perfectly still

and then a humming sound

and then she disappears

leaving only the afterglow

of her earthly visit.

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