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A poem by Patrick Stevens
September
Here lies the harvest
fast piled rough
with all we can stuff
our chipmunk cheeks
puffed and bulging
or squirrels or ants
or bees with their combs.
I relish the ripeness
of September
just after the rot sets in;
when last apples drop,
deer come at night
to feast on our fallen bounty;
leaf edges brown here, then there,
the maples, sweet and red,
drip to the ground
drowned in morning dew.
In evening I see
a thousand varied birds
fowl big, fowl small
flocking south:
go south, go south
they shout, stroking
the air past my sky,
seeking fresh wheat berries
and grasses still green,
as frost turns my world white.
We fight the famine
we fear being old
as if our fate rests still in caves
with bright open blazes
where only our hands
or faces and feet warm
so we hold
so we hold
fearing night; fearing cold.
For me
I wait the rest of winter
I wait the Northern lights
I wait to touch the stars
and hear a crackle under
as I step off the porch
off into the night.
Cloquet native and Moose Lake resident Patrick Alan Stevens is a poet, and a careful observer of the transition from summer to fall.