September

It neighs through small farms and hills.
September is the name of this horse.
See its eye
clear the sharp horizon,
ripen the mountains.
Its hair scatters sun-pollen
over red clay.

September is the name of this horse.
Up to the main square through the streets,
were today a holiday (it is not),
the people of the neighborhood would see it pass,
jobs know suddenly they become trees
in the peace of a high garden.

On balconies the palms of last Easter
are suddenly disheveled and silent clouds go galloping by.
Gallant crops of summer,
trail feathers
...