The sky is a cloudless seventy five and sweet.
The breezes soft as a baby's kiss,
The grasses dance slow,
Slow and sultry and tall.
People are all around and reverent,
Rowing boats and canoes,
Lying in dappled shade holding hands.
The leather and wood I carry is essential,
Almost as old as I am,
Somewhat battered and serviceable,
Beauty inside waiting.
I find an old picnic table in the shade,
Down at the far end of the lake,
I can scent the green and mirror water,
Dragon flies dancing over sparkling rowboat wakes.
Everything is green and light,
Faint hints of Summer's yellow end barely showing.
I pull the golden brass from its case,
And through me Bello sings.
Clear as water and bright,
The notes drift out over the lake,
Easy and mellow,
The reed sings to all its cousins,
"I am alive!"
I bring the notes down low and rumbling,
A deference to Thunder that's left us all this grceful peace,
Then push for the ragged edge of harmonics,
As close to chords as a saxophone gets.
Young children stare in delighted surprise and wonder,
Parents smile and walk slower.
People smile in passing,
I play and play,
One of the last bright Sundays of Summer languidly passing by.
If this is not church and worship and thank-you to God,
I am lost and deaf and blind,
No more so than sources of dispute.
I roll gently through the deep and soft notes of my ending song,
Close the case,
Walk back to the yellow truck.
A fine cigar and chair are waiting,
Coffee and the songs of frogs and cicadas.
September is sweet,
A piece of forever.
By: Daniel A. Stafford