September, September
Too soon you come—
slipping off remnants of summer
Like a cloak
September gleams
in the warmth of blue skies,
a still, high sun,
the last mowing of grass,
but cool mornings bite,
a warning of the tilt,
slipping… slipping… away.

Sun, veiled by a cloud,
white shadows press cold
upon the skin,
in warning.

Leaves shiver, light shrinks,
and the lingering warmth
slips quietly—
too—soon… too—soon…
toward winter.

Originally written: 9/1/2025