Some Say September
Some say April is the cruelest month, leaving
Lilacs upon unmarked graves, grieving
Memories fading and desires, aching
To be filled as the undertaker, undertaking
Daydreams of warmer hands and seaside towns
Some say September is the cruelest, harkening
Back to wounds still so very deep, darkening
The sky and every teary eye that looks up, searching
For a dove, a crow, a bluebird, perching
On a branch beside a single leaf of brown.
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