The end of summer looms on this first day of September,
yet it's always been my favourite time of year -
a time for gathering, like the grass gathers dew
like the hobos I once sheltered gathered blankets
or the sky gathers stars.
I came from humble beginnings;
an assemblage of cells, a grouping
of souls, the earth.
I came from the streets
where sloping pools of orange light swim
through seas of tar
in a swell of darkness.
I was one of the lost ones who embraced the night,
the knife-edge of pain,
the self-stabbing, self-questioning, selfsame abyss
where few are welcomed
and fewer escape.
You accept this, knowing
the similarity of beginnings.
You know the transcendence that has taken place,
that the pain that displaced was a stream,
a forward-going beam, a comet,
an outbound direction from the solar plexus of being.
I have been grains that groveled,
shells on shores.
I have been the wrinkled note in an old pair of jeans,
the unwanted tattoo.
I have been Septembers and Mays,
Decembers and Junes.
But all this led to you,