September One
You, my love,
are September one,
with August’s charm
upon your breath
still soft and warm,
July’s beauty and grace
resting sensuously
upon your breast
and crisp May’s style
twinkling brightly in your smile;
Yes my love,
you are a beautiful
September one.
But I, I am November thirty
with spring and summer
a mere distant memory,
and Thanksgiving cold
has a hold of my bones
while I stare at
upcoming December nights
with dread and fright,
I, my love,
am November thirty
and for that
there is no remedy
And for me to allow
you to fall in love with one
who’s life is so nearly done
would be a sin,
so here I sit
and ponder with chagrin
what could have been
if only I were not
November thirty
and you were not
September one.
