September Poem

Yes, I’m ready for September.
I’m ready for a sudden and not unpleasant chill in the air,
and the feel of long sleeves, the feel of wool,
the feel of leaves beneath your feet
and the sound of them,
and the lonely sound of the last cicada,
and the changed sound of the birds,
and the way that even the sound, say, of a child’s swing,
seven backyards away,
and of the child’s brilliant laughter,
seems altered somehow, seems now,
as cummings said, far and wee,
as if all the auditory world
had undergone a strange and secret shift,
or as if all these common sounds that through the summer
had been set against a backdrop of orchestral brass,
are now set against a backdrop of nearly inaudible strings,
playing something from Vivaldi, say,
so that every note takes on a new and chastened character,
the texture and feel of the word village,
or of the word forest,
or of the word
farewell.