September 21st

When fall first gives me chill-bumps when I walk

barefoot outside one morning, and I 

go back to joyfully dig for the long 

anticipated crumpled long-sleeve at the bottom of the pile, 

I enter a season of forgetfulness. 

Bare feet and fireflies 

are surely children's joys. 

                             Not me—I'll have nothing less 

than browning leaves that scrape across the pavement like 

an old man's fingernails, 

and children under back-pack burdens

sludging their way up school-bus stairs

and missing Mrs. Wilky. 

                                     Perhaps I feel affirmed

when nature shows the pain of age. 

For three weeks, (sometimes four in Tennessee), 

I’ll relish this autumn draught of poignancy and taste

the bitter sweetness of the winding down. 

                                                                The fourth week, 

I’ll acknowledge my lie

and face the fact 

that I bitterly miss bare feet and fireflies— 

but not today.

                       Today, this long-sleeve is more than I could ask.