September, My Old Love

September,

there you are.

You always arrive
before I am quite ready for you,
carrying summer on one shoulder
and autumn on the other,
as though you have never believed
a woman should have to choose
between warmth and becoming.

Perhaps that is why
I have always loved you.

You are neither ending
nor beginning.

You are the beautiful in-between—
the lingering heat of afternoon,
the first coolness slipping beneath evening,
the almost-turning of leaves,
the soft suspicion
that everything is about to change.

And somewhere inside you
is the day I entered this world.

Maybe my body remembers that.

Maybe that is why
when September comes
something in me becomes tender.

I notice the light differently.

I want windows open.
I want long evenings
and slower mornings.
I want to be courted by the wind
and kissed by whatever gold
the sun has left to give.

I want to watch the trees
consider becoming someone new
without once apologizing
for what they must let go.

September,

you have known every version of me.

The girl.
The mother.
The woman who stayed too long.
The woman who finally left.
The woman who searched.
The woman who stopped searching.

And still,
every year,
you return to find me.

A little older.
A little softer.
A little less interested
in becoming anything
other than what I already am.

Perhaps that is the gift
you have been bringing me
all these years.

Not another birthday.

Another arrival.

Another turning.

Another chance to stand
between what has been
and what will be
and love the woman
standing there.

So come closer, September.

You needn't hurry.

Neither will I.

We have the whole month
to fall for each other
again.

With Grace & Ink,

                       Mai