Saturdays Every September

Saturdays every September we walked silvery
cottonwood groves, not for birds or animals
but for a slower, bigger creature: Autumn,
too big to see. Its feet slid among leaves;
its face held blue against miles of branches.
It made a clear pulse, those days.

Always that hollow sky, and the trees — its local
reminders — waited for us. We stood in our several
states, in one of the creature’s tracks, turning.
We heard the atoms of its body race, its promise
run in patterns among those limbs that sparkled
when the wind blew.

Yes, Winter would come, a white foot on each mountain;
it would roll forth in its white fur southward
across the prairies. But always we had this pet
so big that none of our teachers knew. It sat up
begging outside the window, or traced zigzag
figures in frost. I heard it pant in the chimney.

Someday later we would meet Summer’s daughter
and run off together, where the great Autumn
friend had gone. And at last everything
would be gathered in a great silver tree or graceful
weeds or a river. How big that story was!
It might still come true.