september and the butterflies still flit
from bloom to bloom trees manage still to sway
in gentle time in nature's smoothest play
while i am still alive to smile at it
my heart and mind have found the truest grit
is not in words nor in what good folk say
but in the patterns of the everyday
in ready laughter and in honest wit
there are no angels waiting for my soul
nor gods in the beyond with secrets grand
ready to weigh my spirit for its worth
i take this journey for a single whole
the good i do must come from a kind hand
and honest tears are good with honest mirth