September

It’s autumn. I can feel the slowness

Arriving like a mist, silently, incrementally

A finger will fail to point to the moment

And yet, summer’s thirst is not so intense

Already there’s a less relentless, more peaceful

Drawing on the soil’s riches, its salts and

Nutrients sipped rather than swallowed whole

There’s work to be done, but it’s not obvious;

The closing down. The end of things

The complete rest is not for now

It will come. Dormancy.

Even in winter’s grave

All is preparation

The work of

Winter