September

I have spent myself –

my passion,

is drought;

I drank it all summer,

unquenchable,

uncontrollably.

 

Blow something

into my parching soul,

enough to stoke

fall’s frag’ling fire

til buried deep in winter I. 

 

One year away

and I forget snow’s capacity

for purification.

One year gone;

I will

a blooming

from this threat’ning frost

wind blew so cold today

it reminds me

that here:

September isn’t summer

as you are not

and they are not

my lovers

anymore.

 

I bought closed-toe shoes

in resignation. 

Advertisements

About jake.forrest

Poet. Songwriter. Etc. View all posts by jake.forrest

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: