September loved me,
Claimed me for her own;
Her gold-and-orange
Scatterings, well known,
Were strewn across a trail towards the sun,
A trail towards the sun, and hidden things.

September beckoned,
Heeding, then, the call,
I gamboled or
I gambled into fall,
The difference is great, when all is done,
And I was tangled in the hidden strings —

    For when the curtain fell,
    I was alone:
    September moved
    To claim me for her own.

What is it we
Give up when we give in?
Why’s there no end
To what should not begin?
Why do the days and months turn into tears?
And why are all our hopes mixed in with fears?

September knew
The answers. Being coy,
They stayed beneath
A canopy of joy,
That covered up, quite perfectly, the score,
That thing we seek, when are seeking more —

    And so, across the autumn,
    Came a cry:
    From trees that wither,
    Leaves that fall, and die,
    That though September loves us,
    It lets go:
    It’s all there is,
    Or all that’s ours to know.

September claimed me,
Took me on the cheap,
A waking horror
There, beneath the sleep;
But only those
Who’ve felt the light can know
About the burn that’s there
Within
The glow