September begins with
Indian Summer heat
fiercely making up for lost days
for rain and clouds
cramming
and on its best behaviour
praying to stave off what is commonly acknowledged as
The Inevitable
Nights out on the patio
drinking cheap red wine
from expensive crystal glasses
Feeling like kings
illuminated
in a citronella glow
The orange moon
The stars
They know
That by mid month
ripe tomatoes will be canned
and everyone will be far too pre-occupied
to linger
in languor
at farmer’s market stalls
And so,
the skies will cry
the leaves will anger
then shrivel in denial
And this spider I see
weaving a silky thread
between this tree and that and the next
will move indoors
instead weaving woolens for my feet
and waiting
just like me
for the thaw.
September is the final prayer
before the sleep
It’s rejoicing
over onyx-shelled oysters
sprinkled in a rain shower of lemon drops
or baked with a savory zabaglione sauce
It’s the final salute
The celebration
And then the curtains close
tight around my shoulders
a scarf around my neck
And taking its cues
From the orange moon
The stars
The masterpiece
regretfully
completes.

(Maria Giuliani, 2007)