improv, 1am

the wind is nudging my blinds
through the screen;
reaching its long arms through the room
to my door,
to nudge it, too.

metallic taps against drywall;
small thump of doorframe;
tap right,
thump left.

the wind wraps around
my shoulders.
i shiver
i savor september
every year, the small crisp
edges it puts on things,
enough to erase summer's
long, dry bake.

it is the a la mode
month of junejulyaugust
cherry pie.
smooth sweet after
too-warm tang.

but this september
is not the old friend
i know so well.
the caress of the wind
so much more hollow
ghost-like. or i

am more hollow,
ghost-like. i am
empty glass bottle

as september whips over me
echoing a deep moan
from all my sides,
far more animal
a sound
than i have been able
to make in all
the heavy heat of
august.

every night, the wind
kicks up and i
howl my low cry
to a moonface waxing full,
tugging the inner
tide of me out of
myself and leaving
this empty
glass feeling.

i wait for october
when the wind will grab strong,
bite me, reassure me
with presence and movement.
when the moon will wane
and my fullness will return.

when i will write,
and be,
and be glad.