July in September

September crawls now when it normally chases June.
The leaves hold their green,
and for once, summer slows;
curling the air above pavement,
shadowing the undersides of trees,
heating red brick walks.

This year with the crisp air
and the drying leaves,
Autumn will turn a ship west
away from the African coast.
The MOHAWK's white hull will slice the Atlantic
into a frothy wake, a wagging tail.
And cooling weeks will pass
before she reaches Key West, her home.

As the summer ends hundreds of miles to the south,
and the streets here quiet of school children,
my July will return, the first and the twenty-ninth,
and we'll meet in Charleston, halfway between Virginia and the Keys.