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September 17, 2023

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Memoir, Photography, Poetry, Writing Tips

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September Sunday

Cooling wind, 
a lonely dog, 
insect arpeggios, 
slow rolling fog: 
autumn’s song and 
the highway hum.
May Monday morning
never come.

Copyright 2023 Brenda Davis Harsham

Notes: We’re unpacking pods, and moving boxes, but I stole ten minutes on my front porch. I drowsed to the distant highway hum and the nearer, louder insect drone. How did you spend your Sunday?

Writing Tip: Not every poem has to be sophisticated or trumpet elaborate epiphanies. Sometimes, we look for something universal, like the longing for a perfect Sunday afternoon to never end. 

From Sara Teasdale‘s September Midnight:

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.

15 thoughts on “September Sunday”

  6. Two poems for the price of one! Enjoy the insects (!) while one can—and the weeds! I generally do take a nap Sunday afternoon—been getting to church Sunday morning! Plus writing and blogging on this thing (keyboard). Yeah—Monday’s still coming!!!! 😀

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