"september"

fresh-cut wild onions
hit my nose as soon
as my feet hit the porch
the screen door comes back
to catch me
before i put my jacket on.
leaves crumble beneath my flip-flops
as i trudge
to the bus stop,
soon my toes will be begging
for socks
and sensible shoes,
the ends of my pants
rolled further and further
down
until their distressed ends
sweep like little brooms
across the ground.
the onions are brisk,
woody,
and spicy.
the leaves smell like dust--
when i kick them up,
i sneeze, out of habit.
the dirt outside my apartment
has been freshly tilled;
brown and golden,
clay and earth.
it doesn't yet smell like death.