September Midnight
Yellow leaves were falling on the grass in our backyard as I walked out to the chicken coop this morning. I greeted them with a sigh.
Though it’s blazing hot in Illinois today, during the past week we’ve felt the first few whispers of fall—that little bit of bite in the morning air that tells us it will soon be time for pumpkins, haystacks, and warm apple cider. For me, those whispers bring both anticipation and dread. As much as I relish the lovely coziness of autumn, I can’t help but flinch at the thought of the bone-chilling cold that will inevitably follow.
September nearly always puts me in a state of anticipatory nostalgia. I find myself missing mornings in my garden even as I’m still out in it, plucking the last tomatoes from the vines and pulling up wilted bean plants. I miss the freedom of popping out for a walk without having to bother with gloves and a coat even as I’m strolling down the sidewalk in shorts and a t-shirt, fanning myself with my cap. I miss—as Sara Teasdale seems to—those quirkily beautiful summer night concerts of insects singing their little hearts out even as I open the window wider to catch every crescendo.
In spite of the wistfulness it brings, I’m grateful to September, for it reminds me to appreciate what is now, even while preparing for what is to come.
September Midnight
by Sara Teasdale
Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
