September

September is a poet of simple truths,

quiet and unassuming,

slipping through the door

just as summer’s loud applause fades.

Her pen is dipped in twilight,

in the dusky hues of evening

when the sky blushes

into a deep, reflective blue.

She speaks of children, walking to school

with new shoes and uncreased uniforms,

their laughter trailing behind them

like kites in the wind.

She speaks in the language of leaves turning,

of days catching their breath,

of lingering evenings, where the sky hums

with the breath of change.

She sees the way the light catches on the window

and turns everything gold for just a moment.

September does not wait.

She pulls us into its rhythm,

a dance we didn’t know we wanted to join.

And she kisses your cheek,

leaving a smudge of red lipstick.