September 1972

What a September! I was
drunk like a stoat but not on liquor,
not on malt, rather on a girl’s smiles
and signals that managed to arrest my attention.
I hung suspended. She was a rainbow
when I was most needing one,
a promise of color in my dismal gray.
She was Aurora and I, Boreas;
together we danced across the heavens
in a light spectacular.

Hopelessly racked, what strength
had been granted, earned, or rented
vaporized like autumn dew.
A bat without radar or starters,
I flew in her enchanted aura.
September hurried into summer
while fervor springbucked to inferno.
Always forward, we never backed away.

A year went by, another September.
“To everything, there is a season…”
This I remember.