The September Sonnets: I

underneath the blanket         of the summer
         there’s a starlit introspection
reaping all of the moisture          from our heads
         spryly and without regard
for the common refreshening         for our beating heads
         melting with every subtle breeze
every drop upon my brow         lingers so cruelly
         until my hand sweeps its imperfection
from my unruly mane          the lovers dread
         their rompings in the backyard
as they beg the earth         to hold still
         so that they can appease

the morning dew upon the grass         that they call
         their Sunday evening bath
their flailing inside         Summer’s ancient
         dissent outside the Earth’s command
or Man’s insistence         from their certainties
         because of his understanding
when he thinks of how         the world and sky
         should work beyond it’s wrath
but getting Nature to see         what She should submit
         to being while under the hand
of God or when pretty girls         tend
         flowerpots upon the landing

this is the age when         dryness begs itself
         to remain holy for the sake
of Man’s intentions         God forbid a Man
         should bow to Summer, should ever break

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