“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.