Because calendars are imperfect

About 15 minuets from now something
Like a rubber band maybe
Will snap and solve in me
And my own September will start
And all the little loose ends
Ropes, twine, and wire
That have been wiggling and drooping
And tripping or tying me up
Will fall out or reel back
And I’ll stand up real straight
And get some shit done
…
So when the days are perfect
Orange, yellow, and savory
I’ll have all my wheat and grain in a row
With no cord or coil to stumble on
And we can play grasshopper together