A dwindling summer lingers on.
Bright zinnias hold out stubbornly.
Gold buds crowd the chrysanthemums,
their petals buried tight in green
cocoons. And by next month they’ll bring
us autumn sunbursts. Drink with me
a toast to Browning and to Frost
and one to dear Ms. Emily —
for summer days will soon be lost
to ghostly winds and leaf-filled streams.
I look to Ezra Pound and Faust
in shortening days of in-betweens;
and try to find the words to say
September never cared for me.
© Anne Bryant-Hamon