Late September
Tang of fruitage in the air;Red boughs bursting everywhere;Shimmering of seeded grass;Hooded gentians all a’mass.
Warmth of earth, and cloudless windTearing off the husky rind,Blowing feathered seeds to fallBy the sun-baked, sheltering wall.
Beech trees in a golden haze;Hardy sumachs all ablaze,Glowing through the silver birches.How that pine tree shouts and lurches!
From the sunny door-jamb high,Swings the shell of a butterfly.Scrape of insect violinsThrough the stubble shrilly dins.
Every blade’s a minaretWhere a small muezzin’s set,Loudly calling us to prayAt the miracle of day.
Then the purple-lidded nightWestering comes, her footsteps lightGuided by the radiant boonOf a sickle-shaped new moon.