In September
Brandon Cook
Even the barn roofs, demure,
Defer in the end to the slope of the hills
They give in, and I think for a moment they’ve lost hope, as
All things lose their straight lines over time and field and season
Still, the color in September compensates for the decline—
Every autumn, the same song, and we amble on
Just one step slower than last time
We can see more clearly now, like farmers ascending the hill,
How profligate these miracles are
How spendthrift the grace, like rainwater
We shake our heads but say no words
In the awkward smile of receiving gifts
Unearned and undeserved