September's sinking sun
summons shorter days, persimmon's pearled berries
have been gobbled up, sultry sunflowers still stand tall,
but court their namesake's light coyly now, perhaps knowing it will starve them out when its arc loses length to the earth's taunting tilt

mercury crawls slowly
down the tube:
100,
90,
80,
70,
like blood returning
to the heart for a fresh start,
until it settles in its own vesicle, patiently waiting for heat's return
to pump it once again through its brittle artery

I have no patience to wait for its return, no long yawn to greet eternal days, for I am cursed to know
September's soft songs give way to October's ambivalent skies,
and to November's naked ****** of all things green and gold
  December then, need not utter a sound to convince me what leaden fate awaits the long forgotten ghosts of summer,
  and the seeds I have yet to sow in futile ground