September morning—
 
I linger over coffee
 
till the fog burns off.

 
 
 

September twilight—
 
the dog at my neighbor’s house
 
barks incessantly.

 
 
 

No one can restore
 
what the locusts have eaten—
 
September’s new moon.

 
 
 

Mid-September sky—
 
neither a cloud nor a crow
 
smudges the blueness.

 
 
 

September morning—
 
the city streets are quiet,
 
shrouded in thick fog.

 
 
 

Ashes mixed with tears
 
the day the Twin Towers fell—
 
September darkness.

 
 
 

September’s last day—
 
the farmer can’t stop boasting
 
about his melons.

 
 
 

September twilight—
 
a door I cannot open
 
keeps me in the cold.

 
 
 

September twilight—
 
the postman skips my mailbox
 
but fills my neighbor’s.

Eggplant

 
 
 

summer’s last eggplant
 
purpling in September sun—
 
soon the baking dish