So different now--
Hollow, almost,
With crowds, vendors,
Local and out-of-town-sleaze--
Not to say it wasn't there before--
With shock and tug
On the innocence
Of my teenage heart--
Nor the siren song
Of September's moon.

Still we sit
‘Neath the sycamores
Watching our
World pass by.
Walk still, communally,
The festive streets,
Aware of seasons,
Of abundance,
Of passage of another year.

Different now,
Yet, so much the same:
And I do it for Me,
For my own,
For the earth,
For the harvest,
For God,
And certainly
For the authenticity
Of those who came before.

09/28/2009

Author's Note: Reaction to the 2009 local celebration--my 54th.

Posted on 09/29/2009
Copyright © 2025 Leonard M Hawkes