September

　　by Joanne Kyger

　　 The grasses are light brown

　　 and ocean comes in

　　 long shimmering lines

　　 under the fleet from last night

　　 which dozes now in the early morning

　　 Here and there horses graze

　　 On somebody's acreage

　　 Strangely， it was not my desire

　　 that bade me speak in church to be released

　　 but memory of the way it used to be in

　　 careless and exotic play

　　 when characters were promises

　　 then recognitions. The world of transformation

　　 is real and not real but trusting.

　　 Enough of the lessons？ I mean

　　 didactic phrases to take you in and out of

　　 love's mysterious bonds？

　　 Well I myself am not myself

　　 and which power of survival I speak

　　 for is not made of houses.

　　 It is inner luxury， of golden figures

　　 that breathe like mountains do

　　 and whose skin is made dusky by stars.

　　 O fresh day in February

　　 Come along

　　 with me under pine whose new cones

　　 make flowers. In a mellow mood

　　 let's take anything

　　 and you're better

　　 in the peaceful flowing

　　 in the bech

　　 in the bird who flys up

　　 out of coyote bush，

　　 bob cat who crosses the road.

　　 For who could think I could see

　　 the grace of other souls born， and reborn

　　 before in crab shells

　　 snail shells， the head of a grebe

　　 molesin， new onions up. Drawn by

　　 your clever sleigh of tortoise

　　 I listen for the melody

　　 to sing along.