When September Goes
From a wheatfield’s tapestry
I embrace again my childlike wanderings…
a time I deeply remember
when I played without restraint…
our murmurs still squeaking with every
rhythm of past roughish pleasures:
Swooping into a time tunnel
and chasing late summer leaves;
I am still in awe of dusk-fall’s wild hunts…
those bouncy trails of recklessness
mirroring my youth’s enthusiasm.
How we fought gothic pirates untold
across a tousled upland,
then down again through muddy creeks
and grass alike, slingshots whacking
the likes of Captain Hook;
As four gang mates of the Lost Boys roar
‘The Pan is with us’, and Tiger Lily too;
embarking yet on another episode
till my pals and I invade a shipwreck trap.
It is late September again…I reminisce
about this raucous ritual of wild carousals
where I would throw fear to the winds,
where my soul dares the invincible…
my imaginary friends and I walking on air,
designing unbridled fancy against real time:
My dream-like squad is somehow gone
lost in the slings of innocence…
that age of pubescence can be cruel, rude
that treacherous moment when
our wheatfield grows old with me…
Now I gently sob and smile…and yet,
that tableau of shimmering gaiety
still enriches my inner child–
with untamed, Pan- like curiosity.
from Poetry Soup, 2026
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