A Saturday in September

Sweet autumn is the year healing itself
The sun sleeps later, and feels better for it
His early rays tentatively touching the trees
As if seeking his wristwatch to tell the time

A sweet day off is a healing time, too
The linens all rumpled with dreaming dreams
Forgotten at first light, but lingering
A happiness just out of reach, of thought

But happy all the same; now yawn, and stretch -
Another day of possibilities