September

Toast to September,

sunbaked and air-dried,

plump and blistered like

sun-dried tomatoes.

Toast to white sneakers

left on grass sheaths

and gathering bugs with toes.

Hug the willow tree bark,

let splinters texture my arm and

savor the air that smells

like crisp apples.

I cough out cinnamon

breaths and race to catch

a fallen pinecone.

The side of my face that droops

is a weeping willow.

Sleek green hair sharp-turned

like an arrow. Above sounds

sirens; vast like fire & i cast

shadows with the woods. i see

ghostly veils settle on windows

and end-of-season figs.

grass, forest green,

needles my backside like an acupuncturist.

i surrender to this moment:

flat on my back and arms outstretched so i can

become a bridge for beetles,

feel my body seep into the ground

& soak my skin in the first scents of fall

— sweet olive, maple.