One random day last month, Bonny shared a lovely poem. And Kat commented that we could all use more poetry, and suggested a regular “gathering of poetry.” And me? Never one to miss an opportunity for more poetry, I sent an email. And here we are . . . inviting you to a monthly “Gathering of Poetry.”

So. Let’s gather up our favorite poetry to share . . . on the third Thursday of every month.

And Now It’s September,
by Barbara Crooker

and the garden diminishes: cucumber leaves rumpled
and rusty, zucchini felled by borers, tomatoes sparse
on the vines. But out in the perennial beds, there’s one last
blast of color: ignitions of goldenrod, flamboyant
asters, spiraling mums, all those flashy spikes waving
in the wind, conducting summer’s final notes.
The ornamental grasses have gone to seed, haloed
in the last light. Nights grow chilly, but the days
are still warm; I wear the sun like a shawl on my neck
and arms. Hundreds of blackbirds ribbon in, settle
in the trees, so many black leaves, then, just as suddenly,
they’re gone. This is autumn’s great Departure Gate,
and everyone, boarding passes in hand, waits
patiently in a long, long line.
I first read today’s poem in September 2020 when it was featured in Column 808 of American Life in Poetry, then edited by Ted Kooser. Barbara Crooker is a poet from Pennsylvania; you can read more about her here.


Third Thursday.
Every month.
Share some. Read some.
It’s a time to gather up some poetry!