A wheeling, brown-black butterfly Was dropping shadows blossom-high, As, joyful wings against the sun, He dodged a flower, chose that one, And, finding it quite sweet and prime, He sipped, and tasted summertime.
September authored this display Which was, however, yesterday.
Today, September wears a frown. The clouds, all brooding, gray and brown, Are threatening, ferocious brows Above a puckered mouth that vows, With gusty breath, to frost each wing, Each bud, each leaf, each summer thing.
The green and gold of Summer’s crown Dissolves before September’s frown.
