“September,” Friend, Sept. 1988, 22


    There’s nothing left of summer but

    A sky of blue, a last warm day.

    A few dried petals linger that

    A sudden breeze will whisk away.

    And in the trees where honeybees

    All sing and robins call,

    A fluffy little songbird

    Makes not a sound at all.

    The summer sun, once blazing so,

    Is but a dying ember

    That leaves a red and golden glow—

    And this is called September.

    Illustrated by Dick Brown