September

The soccer nets are going up again.

The pools are closing, and my mornings are filled

with yellow buses. At night I think of when

 

the redbuds opened, staining a whole hill,

and how the April air began to vibrate

with bees. The flowers of the world spilled

 

over like a full cup shaken, the gate

of the garden stuck open on the weeds’

relentless plenty. Now it is getting late.

 

The daylight slips away sooner and lends

to a darkness with brighter stars. The wren

has left. Already the sweetgum bleeds.

—Charles Rafferty

from the collection “Where

The Glories of April Lead”