Grover’s Gourds In September

When sap fills out these vines it sluices juice
to dizzy tendrils turning airy curls
with thirsty whorls; it climbs too high,
then stops
and drops
and swells the gourds to pendulous tumescence.
Stems are stretching, water-weighted,
steeping cherokee beneath the sun.

Early summer storms stormed up these roots, headstrong;
then settled, though, at noons, in hammocks
of distended skin, to bask and tan.

Trees? Easily believe the cooling winds
who suddenly recant (infected with a distant chill)
and spurn old friends;

trees easily believe what winds pretend,
and fan their hands at once, then fold;

trees easily believe what winds portend
and flash their coin at once, and spend.

Not so, these gourds, they hold their gold
as if the Proverbs are the word of God
and there will come, yea verily, a final test
and colors working late anneal the best.

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