This is your last class. I promised a year of poetry, and if you haven’t found something you relate to in this span of exposure then you get to move on to another lesson. For those who have begun to hear the music that poetry can transmit—and not all of it does have music—I hope you’ll read one now and then, or maybe write your own.
The Edge of September
The fog is back.
Snuggled in dawnlit meadows,
it curls next to hay bales
like a sleeping cat
awakening at sunup,
stretching lazily, then
stealing away to hunt.
A blanket of blackbirds rises
from country roads clothed
in sunflower border print.
Stately cottonwoods
with gold highlighted hair
bend ever so slightly, straining
to hear their gossip.
In the warmth of noontime,
Jimminy shades up in stubble,
tunes his fiddle, then
creeps among the cannas
issuing invitations
to a jam session
beginning at dusk.
I could almost forget
it’s a farewell party,
except for the edge
of chill in Mariah’s touch,
and distant hills wearing
wraps of blue gauze
for their afternoon siesta.
I’ve always dreaded
the leaving, the bittersweet
taste of change,
so, I chew a sprig of meadow mint,
grasp the shirttails of summer
and turn my back
on the edge of September.
c Lyn Messersmith
2004