When September is in middle age
And the summer has backed off the stage,
See the trees growing old,
Sporting copper and gold
Like the silvering crown of a sage.
Now the month isn’t so nimble no more;
Getting going’s it’s own kind of chore.
Time’s an uneven gait,
Can’t remember the date,
And the weekends have slowed to a bore.
One might notice the fatter the cloud,
All the thinner the afternoon crowd.
Hear it pant as it strolls,
Dripping sweat through its rolls
As it grumbles and gurgles out loud.
Then at night the sun’s sooner to bed
To relax its fast-whitening head.
Mourn the life-green’s retreat
And the dwindling heat,
But be grateful September’s not dead.