So Long, September

This is always a sentimental day of the year...So long, September!Swept away in a flurry of preparation and preserving! September- the thick ofEarth's heaven of harvest! So long, September’s misty morn... Like a postlude, to tune the darkWith ballads slipping like a tearNo lips can kiss away... Tonight's dessert awaiting a mound of freshly-whipped cream,before heading to Jim's mom and sister, who are cooking the rest of supper! So long, sweet sweep of summer spentOf green-leaf secrets whispered ereThe air grew heavy with the scentOf farewell’s pungent atmosphereEre daylight’s dusky hours fellFaster beneath gavels deep blueWhere younger hunger tolled a bellOf inevitable adieu So long, September’s misty mornFutile to stoke Past’s embers, ohOr don a countenance forlornWhere seasons always come and goA time to plant, a time to reapA time to greet, a time to partA time to laugh, a time to weepAnd gather harvests for the heart …fragments of color, peach and plumOf hummingbird and butterflyA petal-and-echo-spectrumFrom summer full of days gone byOf dahlia-pom-poms, vermillionOf fields trembling with cricket laysOf harvest moon medallionDangling above our raptured gaze Where compositions of so-longRouse rhapsodies no pen can spellLike the teal essence of sea-songRolling within, swell after swellLike a postlude, to tune the darkWith ballads slipping like a tearNo lips can kiss away. Ah, hark!Is that a falling leaf I hear? So long, well-trampled garden pathBy expeditions to and froTo heap baskets with aftermathThat always awes and thrills us soWith toil and mercy’s dividendsPraise God from whom all blessing flowsFor every break of day that wendsTo so-long’s certain curtain-close So long, purple wild aster artAnd amber ambience that gleamsLike fresh-pressed cider, sweet and tartTo tease eager taste-buds with dreamsThat, in spite of what time may takeIt kindly, generously grantsUn-stoppered wonderment to wakeA time to sing, a time to dance So long, so long, September-loveOf fading flower-serenadeOf clinging to a thinning gloveWe wear on earth, but heaven-madeOf places we never quite foundAnd some we did, and never soughtSo long, so long, September, crownedWith apple-red and golden rod © Janet Martin