Elizabeth Tibbetts

September

Finally it rains. Fallen beech leaves
shine in the road. Thick smells
of mushrooms rise from the woods.
Grasses gasp and sigh and drink.
All summer the hose stretched
and slept in the sun as the well sank
deeper and deeper into itself.
Now it's the dark side of the moon,
season when yellow squashes
are as big as clubs, when pole beans
rattle inside their husks ~ days
when the pond will open its arms
a few last times before frost,
and we will succumb, grateful and
afraid, remembering, as cumulus
sweep over in herds, how, not long ago,
the full moon broke across the water,
and flooded us madly awake until
we dove in and swam its shattered track





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