Sultry noon, a burning sun;
Drooping leaves, their courses run;
Whirring insects from the mass
Of dead or dying leaves and grass;
Just a breath of careless breeze;
Butterflies that loop and tease–
September days are made of these.
But at dusk, horizon’s haze
Quickly quenches summer’s blaze;
In the air a sudden chill
Paralyzes chlorophyl,
Makes the moon a huge embossed
Cube of ice, its corners lost–
September nights are made of frost.
by Ray Romine Friday, September 6, 1946
