September Staying

By Patricia Ranzoni

The air is made of missing:

spaces where you were, sounds

lacking yours. A robin basks

on the arbor appreciating as much

as I and whole bubbles of butterflies

bounce in the garden quiet but for

crickets nearby, crows far off,

leaves high up. Certain flies buzz

somewhere. The spider still weaves

in the hops vine but hummingbirds

have gone, like summerfolk, like you,

to other worlds leaving hardy ones

to season ourselves in stillness again

to find our own peace. Our own place.

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