In September

the light changes.


Not just the light but 
crickets begin to sing
day and night.

I am drawn to find 
the gentle sea lavender.

Copper caps of mushrooms break
through dry earth as I walk 
toward the marsh where armies
of fiddler crabs scurry.

Along the way low-lying meadows of purple aster
like stars light up the ground instead of the sky.

There's an intoxicating decay from
dried oak leaves creased with spores.
Tiny dots of light pour through each leaf,
along the veins minute white worm-shaped
mold.

When I come upon these speckled leaves

I breathe in--spice, something--

close to exhilaration.


                      
                      Harriet Miller

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