the first week of october / by Ellen Sorensen

it always happens the first week of october 

just like the birds, my friends fly south for the winter

it’s predictable that i’m left saddened 

summers over and i’ve been abandoned 


i usually stop talking and start thinking 

with the lights dimmed and a record playing 

thirty years and still caught in between 

embracing here and finding another kind of green


is who i am, who i’ll always be? 

god forbid, for he made me free

all the love i’ve fought for ardently

i pray will come back abundantly 


so in this time when i feel insufficient 

that i must find a new calling or mission

i’ll remember they named me light for a reason 

and rest knowing I’m hitting the stride of my season