September left too soon, well, too soon for me anyway.
She stepped softly out of sight, leaving behind her faint perfume,
Of pointy crayons in boxes, wood shavings from sharpened pencils,
Notebook paper and new shoes, the oily exhaust of school buses,
A hint of coconut sun-tanning oil from the last of our boat trips.
Days crisp as apples, fresh with possibility.
Gone only a day, a year to wait for next time,
I wish September had thirty-one days,
But that’s part of her allure, cutting her visits short.
Hello, October. What will you bring this year?