There’s a certain way the lake smells
in September- when the goldenrod is fading into browns, and the hummingbirds
are hovering around the feeder
filing up for their return to wintering grounds.

When the first few leaves
are floating on the water,
spinning green and red reflections
on the waves, and the angle of the sun is shifting, slanting, into longer taller shadows, shorter days.

There’s a certain way the lake smells in September-
like the pages of an old book
I’ve read ten times before,
or the sweetness of a new lover’s perfume
that lingers heavy in the room,
long after they have walked out of the door.

It’s not enough to inhale it alone.
It’s not enough. Inhaling just won’t do it…
My nose just isn’t strong enough. I have to
put my whole self into it. My whole heart.
Let me open up my mouth and rip it apart,
I want to chew, swallow, and aspirate.
Let my lungs inflate with the wistful weight,
Let it fill me up, weigh me down,
so I can sink to the bottom, and be surrounded, swaddled in a blanket of nostalgia,
anchored to the longing and remorse.
Succumbing, surrendering to the fragrant force.

Leave me here, under water,
with this certain smell.
Leave me here. Let me hold it in and hold it still,
let me undulate and vacillate like pond weed,
let me look up to see the sunlight through the reeds and current
blurred lines, between the surface and the seasons.
Leave me here. This is mine.

Gently lay the rocks on top of me,
and leave me here.

I want to drown in the sentimentality.
The sentimentality of a certain smell.