Garden Bells

September rings its
garden bells
when the year picks up its skirts
to run.

Some mornings
it has rained,
and others, the sky is
that impossible autumn blue. 

I wish I knew
why, even in sobriety,
even in maturity,
I am September's motherless child.

Before long, perhaps,
It will no longer matter
about the ache of wet leaf mornings
and impossible autumn blue.



Outlawyer said…
Unfortunately, blue never seems impossible - it comes pretty readily at times. A vivid and beautiful poem, one can absolutely see and feel those mornings in the lines, and the blue beneath them. Thanks, Shay. k.
Sioux Roslawski said…
Shay--I love the first stanza, the last stanza, the third stanza--the whole poem... especially that line about "the ache of wet leaf mornings."
TexWisGirl said…
'when the year picks up its skirts to run' - wow...

i get melancholy in fall. miss my family in wis. miss fall in wis. miss so much of life.
Sherry Blue Sky said…
Oh, the melancholy of September mornings...memories of our own school days, (I remember walking to school feeling very much the motherless child), and our children's school days, long gone. Sigh. Love that impossible autumn blue of the sky.
hedgewitch said…
I hope I will always be able to feel something, even if it is only this beautiful etiolated sense of things slipped away that your perfect autumn poem brings.
Kerry O'Connor said…
This is beautiful, and achingly so. I am celebrating my youngest daughter's 21st birthday this week...This is a line not easy to forget: I am September's motherless child.
Mama Zen said…
"even in maturity,
I am September's motherless child."

Once again, maturity fails to live up to its promises. This is gorgeous.

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