In this last day of September,
there are things to remember;
fading of the summer's heat,
scents of autumn, oh so sweet.

Shadows grow a little quicker,
as the sun begins to flicker;
the dawn is slow in rising,
each morn a bit surprising.

The air grows crisp and cool,
and still I am but nature's fool;
happy in the changing of a season,
not for any certain rhyme or reason.

Autumn comes with dying themes,
in its multicolored schemes;
in the falling of the leaves,
form proud majestic maple trees.

September slips in grand repose,
with each death of one red rose;
giving way to autumn's song,
as the change of life moves on.