It is too cold for frogs to jump in September,
for pussy willows to show their fuzz.
This month is iron and steel
and giant winged lions standing guard on either side of the doors.
This month is caught between an open hand
and a sore throat. Even the leaves run in a confused circle.
It is hard to remember this skin was once brown,
now a sallow yellow and nothing close to golden.
The sun agrees as she dons her veil of indifference.
She doesn’t celebrate mortals until April next year.
The gong resounds in the singing of our blood;
an adrenaline that carries us downstream
to the next ice flow. Soon Thanksgiving gravy
will thicken our senses. Until then,
a haiku for light reading and an orange
for Buddha.
