mid-September in the Piedmont
the air-conditioner just cut off,
and a bird asserts whatever its agenda is,
most of the natural world is quiet in sound now,
though loud in feeling summer ending
and fall impinging,
daylight lessens,
more birds argue their points:
territory? mating?
just wanting to be noticed?
in the garden okra asserts its usual exuberance,
pumpkins start to swell and ripen,
tomatoes hold on,
though only the yellow cherry
seem to have their heart in it,
the tomatillos shout their presence,
the basil still gives but it’s tired,
the Kentucky Wonder pole beans are nearly ready
to release the string beans
that define their species at its best,
the buttercrunch lettuce germinates,
a second planting since the first evaporated
into but a few surviving seedlings,
in the yard black-eyes susans are glorious
in the beauty of their will,
I worry about the mountain laurel
who flared more and better than ever before,
and now has a yellow to its green where it flowered,
the year seems tired, or maybe I’m just projecting,
the next day cooler air braces me to wake up.
by Henry H. Walker
September 14, ‘20
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