Poem: The End of September

The End of September

It is chilly this morning,
the end of September, when
the morning light streams bright as summer,
but the winds hint of winter's icy pall.

You stand on the porch,
your bare feet cold against the wood slats,
your chest warm in flannel,
caught in the middle place,

where seasons, like life, are unsure,
in that middle place
between fear of freezing,
and glorying in the last promise of summer.

Your eyes lift to nearby Tinker Mountain,
still swathed in the bright green of August,
but here, in the leaning poplars that line the creek,
the first yellow leaves show their paint,

and the last fall flowers bloom at your feet.
You smile. This is the way of life.
Seasons. Always changing. Always returning.
God's circle. God's promise. Eternity in the moment.

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The picture is of flowers in the small flower bed at the front of my apartment. You can click on it for a large version.

Tom