September hangs like apples on a tree,
Clothed in patchworks of ochre and russet,
Morning mists and muted shades of sunset,
Her cloudy face a solemn shade of grey.
Grass is seeded and weighs heavy with dew,
Capturing footprints in a damp embrace.
Spiders leave intricate gossamer lace,
A necklace of droplets reflects the hue
Of every leaf before they fall and fly,
Cover the earth in a mantle of fire,
A gift to Summer: her funeral pyre,
Fanned by the wind with a kiss and a sigh.
Promise of Winter is left in the air
Suspended from trees whose branches are bare.