Poet of The Month
Powerful and captivating lines with brilliant imagery and metaphors, an excellent write on facing change and mortality as the hands of time drags us into the unknown.
~
Pam Ray
This is enchanting. I quite enjoyed it.
~ Argot Wings
Lush yet raw, it fuses decay and divinity, autumn as erosion, memory, and resignation. Grit, rot, and reverence braided seamlessly together.
~ Babbler
Congratulations … SKN
The Hush of Endings: A September Reverie by SKN
This month’s Poet of the Month captures the tender ache of change in “Nuzzled into September,” a haunting meditation on decay, nostalgia, and the quiet grace of endings. Each line is ripe with
sensory richness, rust and apples, smoke and cider, inviting readers into a landscape where time itself seems to exhale. The poem’s delicate balance of reverence and resignation evokes both the melancholy and beauty of autumn’s surrender. With lan-
guage crackling like dry autumn leaves at dusk and imagery that lingers like twilight, this piece reminds us that even as the year fades, there’s sweetness in the hush. A masterful tribute to transition, one that cradles the soul as softly as September’s own breath.
~ Yumpy
Nuzzled Into September
Who taught the air to taste of rust and apples, to carry the sting of wood smoke like a pilgrim dragging home a fractured faith?
Orchards cough up half-rotten pears, miasmic mildew dripping into the grass, wasps hover at split fruit mouths, shamrocks blackened enough to make cornfields reel.
Do starlings remember the songs of summer sparrows, or have their black throats gulped every note into winter?
My tongue is clove and ash, my lips salted by near twilights; I drink from a canal shrunk to mirrored mud.
Perhaps thirst migrates south with swallows, with geese scripting their long farewells across the sky’s ashen parchment. Does the fog settle to bless me, or to bury heartbeats a shroud stitched from Mnemosyne’s swoon?
Pastures, cut bare, reek of haystacks and gasoline. My coarse hands, frail beneath fatigue, watch the canvas wilt like waning moons under saffron fists.
Who said time is gentle? It creeps with brittle wings, gold talons scratching crooked calendars into the bark of my sour bones.
And suddenly, quietly, it is September the flavor of the falling year: fritters and cider.
I wonder... when owls call, low and mournful, are they asking for me too?
Nuzzled against your breast, O mother of Autumn, I learn the hush of endings is sweeter than any harvest.
By: SKN
S K N ... Sweet Kind Nice...
AP Member Since 1-3-25
Level 33 ~ Zen Master
She Is A Member of Many Groups Here on AllPoetry ...
We are Very Fortunate To Have SKN as a Member of L N P
She Is a Consistent Contributor, Both To The Group and Radio Podcasts ...
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My-Grandfather-s-Echo-by-SKN
Cobblestone-Serenade-by-SKN