September

The summer wanes, its colors fade, Yet gold and amber light is laid. On fields that bow with harvest grain, September walks the earth again. The river slows, its current mild, Its voice grown soft, its temper wild. The breezes carry scents of hay, And whisper summer’s last delay. The maples burn with sudden flame, Each leaf unique, yet none the same. They fall like embers, bright, then gone, A fleeting fire to lean upon. Between the warmth and autumn’s chill, The world grows quiet, hushed and still. September holds a tender space, A gentle pause, a fleeting grace.