We Are All September Poem by Rebekah Gamble

It’s near dark
and I have just finished
putting my planting tools away.

There is a strong wind that smells of rain,
tossing the trees about
as easily as it tosses my hair
around my shoulders, on my back.
There is something pretty
about the feel of long hair.

I remember the time
the wind tossed me to the ground
like the leaves dragged about on the road
and how it made me laugh.
Something inside
tells me I should smile,
but I don’t smile.

Everything turns pink in the dusk.
Perhaps it is pink
because this good earth is red.
It is so very red,
so very soft and moist
under my feet.
The grass is so unbelievably green,
glowing soft around my toes.
Soft red, soft green,
the vibrancy of the Good, good earth.

I remember the philosopher
who carved instruments
and told me that energy likes
when people stand on the good ground,
that such completed energy
made me light up a bit
because that’s how humans were meant to be.
He was a farmer
and never wore shoes.

A deep blue darkness begins.
The clouds are a strangely beautiful mix
of white, gray reds,
and look like the tissue
that lines a womb.
I am a child of sky and earth.

The moon makes the most beautiful
opal smear in her bed
of cerulean and indigo clouds.
It doesn’t matter what they say,
She is our mother.
The Christians would tell me
that I shouldn’t think this,
that it is pagan.

A man in a shining white truck
pulls into a road, turns around,
leaves the way he came.
He must be lost.
Aren’t we all?