When September Ends
When September ends, the roses will remember
the warmth that lingered softly in their red;
the afternoon will lose its golden ember,
and summer will retreat from where it tread.
When September ends, the leaves will loosen,
as though the trees have learned the art of grace;
they will release what once they fiercely chosen,
and drift like old regrets from branch to place.
When September ends, what leaves me, too?
A younger face I scarcely recognize,
old dreams that once seemed certain, bright, and new,
and names that now return as ghosts at night.
Yet not all endings carry only loss;
the fallen leaf enriches waiting ground.
The broken heart, though marked by grief and frost,
may hear a quieter awakening sound.
So wake me when September has departed—
not from the sleep of autumn, but from fear;
for life, though leaving much of what I started,
still whispers: Something new is waiting here.
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