Weep with me, September.

The embers of these days

burn with wakened grief—

the thief came to kill,

and all will not be well

for a while yet.

Where leaves and tears and people fell,

we knelt, gaping, trembling, broken

on these tokens of evil—

my will and mind, lisping,

your crisp, clean blue,

the hue of blood.

Cruelty has fingers now

and lingers, putrid, in the air

where deeds were done.

A gun, a knife, a plane—

any stain will do

to prove his mark.  

But wait with me, Semptember.

And remember—rinse well

and cleanse the wounds.

Soon our King will ride

the skies—so wait—

till hate is no more.