(Original date of publication: 09/23/2017, 2:13 P.M.)

Thee September,
You’re the March of fall–
I remember.

The true Seventh,
In thee,
Life defies death;
And death surrenders
To valiant memories.

Thee, September,
You’re the beloved
Harvest of Charlemagne’s.

In thee,
Petals bloom in rosegold;
While the soil shimmer in moss;
Crops beam in stunning hues amid their daunting fate
In the refrigerator.

Thee, September,
You’re the fairy godmother
Of forget-me-nots, morning glories, and asters.

In thee,
Those pretty blooms
Shine with silvers and sapphires in the dinner table–
I remember.

Thee, September,
You’re the year’s
Most gentle.

In thee,
Lavander and vanilla competes for the best scent
To win the purest heart
Of the meekest air we breathe–
I remember.

Thee, September,
You’re the crowning glory
Of Michael the Archangel.

In thee,
He cast the fallen in abyss of abyss;
While Heaven crowns the oceans and seas,
The faithful and hopeful,
The dreamers and doers of leis and wreaths . . .

. . . crafted by the humming angels
Who’ve been stalked
By dozing butterflies
Who’ve fallen
In want at first sight.

Thee, thee, September,
Oh, I remember.