…one would look up to the trees and be thrilled by the wind-loosened river of pale gold foliage cascading down…   Mark Strand – “The Old Age of Nostalgia;” Almost Invisible

Come, whispers Sleek September
I make no promises other than to be a gateway
for seasons with leaves tinted gold, russet, and ginger
I exist for an immaterial moment before

I murmur to hummingbirds
to fly south or north in zephyrs as guides
as they travel to nesting places  
they sense my silent influence

I see children become sad when they return
to classrooms and books rather playing all day long
They gaze out windows or daydream, longing
the return of summer days

Approach me, utters September
I am the sigh of falling leaves
swirling to the ground like butterflies
that depart on their long journeys

Delight in my doorway of wishes for cooler days
I usher holidays in succeeding months
although I do not wish for commercial celebrations
but those in the human heart  

I exist for an immaterial moment before
seasons with leaves tinted gold, russet, and ginger fly
I make no promises other than to be a gateway
Come, whispers Sleek September