We are going into September
on a chill, misty morning,
the bitter taste of coffee —
in the cup of the last day.
we depart, and our trace
will again blur for a year,
splashes from oars, like drops from a heart,
that we will drink to the dregs.
We are going into September
clusters of red viburnum
illuminate the turns
as if giving us a signal,
we leave and cut
with our boat the cold, black mirror
but this is not the finish
but simply the season's finale.
We are going into September
with faith in the very best.
Birds fly south to warmer climes,
and we — to the asphalt port.
We await a meeting
and will not agree to less,
only winter will pass,
only we will grow older by a year.
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