September Morn

Today is the 30th birthday of Rosie Lacy, my adopted daughter, the one who made us "a real family" as Chris said at twelve, the one who made Adrian "her slave" at the age of seven. She is off in the wilds of southern Louisiana camping in rain and thunder, and I hope, waking to a calm September morn.

Those who are of a "certain age" remember our mothers teasing as we came from a hot bath, "Oh, you look like September Morn!" For ages it made no sense, and later as we learned she was referring to a risque and popular painting, which we had never seen, it made us laugh. To us, being wet and pink and naked from the bath was a normal state of being--how could anyone think it was risque? We just repeated her "ooolala" and danced down the hall with our towels fluttering like the cape of a matador.

Good September Morn 2009--I sit on the back porch, pink from a steamy shower, watching a gentle rain and a new kitten leaping from floor to couch to piano back and forth across my living room, and sipping a hot cup of double strong Chai tea. Whoops! Something in my past two years must have taken root, that should be a cup of hot, double strong Chai tea. I may be waxing eloquent under the eaves and waning yet another day toward oblivion, but the writing muse insists on consciousness.

Consciously, I know your September morn may not be my morning at all. . . and we all need to remember the dark side of the moon, and of mankind, on a beautiful morning in the Ozarks.

The Day is a Poem
September 19, 1939 by Robinson Jeffers

This morning Hitler spoke in Danzig, we hear his voice.
A man of genius: that is, of amazing
Ability, courage, devotion, cored on a sick child's soul,
Heard clearly through the dog wrath, a sick child
Wailing in Danzig; invoking destruction and wailing at it.
Here, the day was extremely hot, about noon
A south wind like a blast from hell's mouth spilled a slight rain
On the parched land, and at five a light earthquake
Danced the house, no harm done. Tonight I have been amusing myself
Watching the blood-red moon droop slowly
Into the black sea through bursts of lightning and distant thunder.
Well: the day is a poem, but too much
Like one of Jeffers', crusted with blood and barbaric omens,
Painful to excess, inhuman as a hawk's cry.

September Morn 1939. So long ago, 71 years, and still we shiver.

Peace on Earth, Happy Birthday Rosie, September 6, 2009.

Kate