September

By Dora Wymer

There’s nothing left of summer but

A sky of blue, a last warm day.

A few dried petals linger that

A sudden breeze will whisk away.

And in the trees where honeybees

All sing and robins call,

A fluffy little songbird

Makes not a sound at all.

The summer sun, once blazing so,

Is but a dying ember

That leaves a red and golden glow—

And this is called September.

Illustrated by Dick Brown