Sometimes in September

Poem written by Ellen Steinbaum, used with permission from the author

Every morning now we
count the morning glories–
twenty-three today–
that sprung up while we
were sleeping and curl
glorious in their one
day on the arbor among
waning moon-flowers,
wisteria too new this year
for bloom, and grape vines
that persist through all our
attempts to tear them out. A
rush of birds and squirrels
harvests acorns and the kousa
dogwood’s dropping fruit.

Every year I forget this–how
spring’s all petulance, with
cold and rain that never end
and summer’s short, winter
forever, but this brightness
will open, lit colors clear
as morning glories, with
curtains blown inward at
an empty window, with
papers flying in the air
above a desk, with something
just about to happen, with
something just over.