Edge of September

I dance on the edge of September
like a child along the ocean's rim,
my feet unsandaled, blistered
toes cooled by the surf,

like a lone swimmer soaking
the last ray of sunlight,
bobbing effervescent waves
before October's clouds
wash the beach empty.

A rainy day muse beckons me.
I know well the sad eyes and drawn face.
She clings to dreams of graceful dips
as she motions a far-off embrace.

So today I dance with the surf,
and her, and the seagulls wheeling
in a seamless blue sky.

Fifty-four Septembers
have brought me to this shore
and I always hate to say goodbye.