September light is mulled wine. It is
milkwood and honey. It drifts down, down,
through the dream-pearled spaces.
It is glass and mulberry, rose quartz
and diamond, shadows of bees.
Peach leaves, rust-gold with dying.
And the late roses, berry-red,
that redden the shade-gray walls
of the garden.
Beet leaf and squash vine.
Sourwood and kale,
gone-to-seed vines in the dirt patch.
Lettuce stalks climbing
along the chimneys.
Night passing.
Moon at the edge of full; Orion floating.
Trees in a glass garden.
Mandolin weather.
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