During the pandemic I began jotting down a few lines about each of the months as experienced in Michigan. I have since added to those jottings when something worthwhile came to mind. I hope to create a suite of 12 poems and publish those poems here in a timely fashion (a January poem during January, February during February, etc.). My first offering is this poem for September.
SEPTEMBER IN MICHIGAN
In September we pause,
giving thanks for the summer
and looking forward to October
while knowing full well the trials
which wait for us beyond.
The Great Lakes are still swimmable—
not Superior, of course not Superior—
the beaches delightfully deserted
and jet-skis covered with tarps,
unable to annoy again ‘til June.
College football consumes Saturday—
Go Blue! Go Green! Go Broncos and Britons! —
while on Sunday we wonder
which Lions team we’ll see this year.
The Tigers break our hearts again.
Soybeans turn yellow for harvest,
green cornstalks begin to fade.
Sumac and poison ivy turn red,
prompting the annual vow
to rid our yards of both.
Cicadas get too much credit
for night-songs from the woods.
They provide back-up vocals—
the Vandellas without Martha—
while katydids sing the lead.
It’s warm when we leave home
to watch a high school game—
field hockey, jv football, soccer—
but cold, dark and windy by halftime
and we shiver in our short sleeves.
Pears replace the peaches
we dream of once gone.
Sweetcorn is not nearly so sweet.
Mums and gourds fill farm markets
in time for the equinox.
Good tomatoes can be found
until the first frost
and half-pecks of seconds
are turned into sauce
to carry us through the dark.
The brittle leaves of lesser trees
litter our lawns and remind us
the brilliant red and yellow of maples
and somber ochre of oaks
will soothe our souls soon.
Joseph Neely
My book SLOW RIVERS (ISBN 979-8-218-43822-7) can be ordered through your local bookstore or online via bookshop.org, where you can specify a particular bookstore to benefit from your purchase. Yes, you will also find Slow Rivers on Amazon, and I am grateful to readers who buy it there. But think about it: does Jeff Bezos really need the money?
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The Occasional Poem 
Joe-great poem, and for me so melancholy.
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