September Morn
Dawn rides the morning air
over silent houses and abandoned gardens,
flickering light along
the edge of the windowsill,
ushering in
my grandmother’s fearful cry.
Like a crumbling yellow leaf
dropping
suddenly
from an ancient oak,
the stillness shudders
and startles me from my dreams.
I find her,
golden, warm and white.
Eyes, closed as tired blossoms,
the braided hair, a wispy crown,
the sheets, perfumed by autumn and old books,
rest like a queen’s mantle across her paper shoulders.
I could not push the crisp air
back into her mouth with my kisses.
It was harvest time.
A September morning brought her
and another came to take her back,
two long-lost companions
rising
like the smell of ripened earth,
through walls of cracked stone,
whispering reunion in perfect cadence
to the trembling aspen leaves—
tiny, golden tambourines of autumn—
rejoicing in her return.
As they both pass, the scarlet maples bow.
Under the canopy of slanting light,
I hold her slight body,
listening for the echo of the cry,
it folds like a fan into the emptiness.
Melonie Cannon is on the Segullah editorial board. She is married to Dr. James Uhl. They are the parents of four energetic children. This poem was written for the funeral of her grandmother, Alice Nelson Cannon, a woman who was very much in love with life and with words.
