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.