September

Since September is here,
and we're also here,
let's have a poem, a poem for it,
for September, for us, and for here.
Not three poems, but one.  Though, 
admittedly, September is a poem with three parts,
or a poem with four parts, 
or five parts, or one part,
the number of parts being predicated 
upon on the number of partitions, obviously,
and less obviously upon the particular 
partitioning habits of the partition-er, 
i.e., the one who partitions
i.e. you, or us, or them.
 
Unlike previous Septembers when we wandered in
a fog of un-timed time, stupid neanderthals bashing
beast heads and bragging about it with a grunt and a chuckle,
this September, September 2012, we honor the word part
that started it all: the prefix "sept."

We thank you, sept, for being there.
We thank you, sept.  You are the prefix
before we knew the prefix, a pre-existent truth,
a self-actualizing conceptual entity,
with which we mere mirrors of words
and poor readers of calendars aspire to harmonize.

Thank you for getting things started.  
When we were silent, you were speaking,
announcing your monosyllabic self-sound, sept. 

I was once a baby without a month, 
and you, sept, with your friend, tember, 
having compassion, guided me gently into manhood.