A Moment In September

A moment in September

at the hour of uncertainty

between night and morning

(is there any other hour?)

when emptiness solidifies

into its crystal element

of pain, or bliss,

which are the same

nectar, the same sap,

and silence falls

as the first fruit of your harvest

(leave some here,

food for the wanderer.)

It is the moment when I hear

the spider out in the night

that has not yet come

weaving a net to hold the moon

that is not yet full.

The ululation of the bold

coyote mother giving birth

among withered morning glories

that cluster the chassis

of an abandoned truck.

The elegant blood-thirst

of the owl

hovering over a rabbit.

Surely this is a moment

when the mind slips out of

memory into something

more uncomfortable,

more awake,

and the heart slips out of the husk

into sweet lascivia,

the pungent chaos of mushrooms.

What is the chosen fragrance

of the naked and the beautiful?

Vulnerability.

Surely this is the moment

when the whole season whispers

through trillions of translucent

delicate dying wings,

"Expose this, expose everything!"