Poem: Late September Morning

One of those fresh cold mornings
With air in the air
And sun on the sky,
Neighbourhood breath breathing through
The slightly-opened window,
And September thinking of sleeping for another
Year.

It’s not as if this day matters more
Than all or any of all the other days
          (any more than a particular kiss
                     or the lack of a particular kiss
                             should become everything that is)
But

Where does this scent of smoke come from?
Why does autumn associate itself with incense?
How does the green grass absorb all that gold?

And what am I doing
Allowing a morning
To remind me of you?

27 September 2002