Ode to September

 

The dowdy old maid of the calendar year

She is a frumpy, listless wanderer.

Her summer adornments have shriveled

To dried, oft dusty clutter.

 

She is confused and undirected.

Neither lively Summer nor crispy Fall.

She’s the end of fun and frolic.

But not yet cozy and comfortable.

 

Her scenes are uninspiring.

Migrating birds land only to rest

On her halfway barren branches

Before heading south to greener pastures.

 

But without her, the clock would not turn.

The seasons would not change.

Seeds would not hibernate nor

Nature revive and reproduce.

 

She’s as necessary as wind and rain

Snow and ice, heat and breezes.

Her sad status is to begin the process

Of Nature’s assured renewal.

 

Do not disparage her for tis her fate

To be the ugly stepchild hiding

In plain sight, to clear the Summer’s

Droppings and begin the slow rebirth.