When the subtle slip of light becomes September
The paradox of horizons—ever limited, ever
Limitless: Understood. That slant in the after-
Noon has the sense of Days Spent. The voices
Of birds, even, lower—as if they, too, notice
The slide of time and Whatever Approaches.
Still, it’s steeped in love, in the enamored
Harvesting, in fat seeds, new and fall-ready,
Drooping the stem and waiting to be worthy.