September Moon

Another rising September moon,
     when the ju-ju hounds begin their ghostly
      cry and swoon,
And the last Summer sun falls low in early
     Autumn sky.
Oh, these last days seem always so crisp and
     pure, as though Summer followed Summer
and the season was endless for sure;
      but having witnessed so many a year we all
      know it sadly cannot be so.
For even Summer's flowered meadow must yield,
      and fall low to the occasional seasonal
      mow and cold winter's snow.
Yet in wetter reach, where nay plow nor blade
      has yet to breach the Dragonhead spiral
      magenta and free, among thick swamp weed
      and blazing young maple tree ...
Dreaming back the seasons become so perfect and
      clear, from early April's bud as the snow
      commenced to disappear ...
Oh my! In April's past, when the warm Spring
      sun never seemed to last,
And upon wooded southerly hillside the violet
      Hepatica shone, and no longer Winter winds
      would moan ...
Yes, 'tis true, the chill of white frosted
     ultimately will come, with skies cold and
     clear,
Yet in all the snowy still there is precious
     little to fear ...
For as Spring arrives, and sweet Summer
     thereafter, the warm meadow breezes call
     the flowers alive, and life again
      will burgeon and thrive.

by J. B., Haydenville, MA