September is one name for this season.

You hear the ram’s horn reverberating

through the half-lit trees, calling

for a new year, a dream that you have

of revival. You write that you are fasting,

starving to be recognized. Your empty bed

stands for repentance. Your dreams grow

into a field where wild cockscomb, dahlias,

and lemon grass bloom. The land reveals

itself a changeling; a desert. The sand remains

not lush, not glittering. The horizon never moves.