September is fall, of course.
She arrives quietly and treads softly.
No need for stark coldness, yet.
She is here to dim the lights, earlier.
First things first.
She will inform the trees that summer
has left, and that sadness of shedding
shall begin.
They can’t be caught with their leaves still hanging,
taking away valuable life that needs
to be preserved. It is about
the survival, not the vanity, after all.
She is like the priest who has just arrived
to give the last rites. No need to rush,
just prepare.
September does it slowly, and calmly,
as if she understands her role, the prophet
of the brutality just ahead.
Lower the temperature by a degree here
and maybe a degree there, then at times
even present some warmness, trying hard
to convince that she is merely
a foreteller, as the hardships
are not hers. They are of the months following.
They will not be as accommodating
as September is.
Then, one cold midnight, she hands the skies
over to her brother.
