Song for Early September

Summer’s last sigh
Bending low then lying down — lost
And unconcerned —
For the long, familiar sleep
Of iced shores
And dark, lovely spaces
That find themselves beneath
Tree-fall and trestle;

Leaves
That crowd riverbanks:
That bruise the traces
And railways and blacktop with thick gold
And thin red,
And hesitate and shake
In air and light too suddenly cold
For short sleeves or laughing out loud;

The truth of what is
Pulled from last year’s threadbare
Coat sleeves and pockets
And given to the wind
And the present dusk
Sliding slowly down from
Hat to boot
Where shoulders end
And prairies launch themselves
Unembarrassed
Upward
To the nameless sky
And outward
To the yearless horizon.

I come by these things honestly,
Stumbled upon in early fall.

When my years are
As weary as my miles,
And never far
From the edge-lands of fire
That stand
Against armies of unseen eyes.

When all things are edge, and canvas, and slate.

When lift bridges still,
And all crossings grow as silent
As the space between the stars,
And the time for listening, watching, waiting
Has passed.