“The day I lost you my tongue felt like copper.
Salty and rusty and so so heavy it almost forced me to the ground.
The day I lost you my lungs were ready to give out.
I had forgotten how walking the same earth as you kept me alive.
The day I lost you I found myself.
It was so hard, to remember who I was aside from the person who loved you.
I’m still not sure, darling, but I’ll keep on searching.
One breath at a time.”
Ah, September! You are the doorway to the season that awakens my soul… but I must confess that I love you only because you are a prelude to my beloved October.
I used to love September, but now it just rhymes with remember.
Yeah – Sure I remember
Matter of fact it was just last September
She still calls it the fall to remember
In his or her own way, everyone I saw before me looked happy. Whether they were really happy or just looked it, I couldn’t tell. But they did look happy on this pleasant early afternoon in late September, and because of that I felt a kind of loneliness new to me, as if I were the only one here who was not truly part of the scene.
We know that in September, we will wander through the warm winds of summer’s wreckage. We will welcome summer’s ghost.
for all I can really do is
in September’s rain
soaking it all in
holding on to poetry
for dear life.
In the face of impossible odds, people who love this country can change it.
The first flash of color always excites me as much as the first frail, courageous bloom of spring. This is, in a sense, my season–sometimes warm and, when the wind blows an alert, sometimes cold. But there is a clarity about September. On clear days, the sun seems brighter, the sky more blue, the white clouds take on marvelous shapes; the moon is a wonderful apparition, rising gold, cooling to silver; and the stars are so big. The September storms–the hurricane warnings far away, the sudden gales, the downpour of rain that we have so badly needed here for so long–are exhilarating, and there’s a promise that what September starts, October will carry on, catching the torch flung into her hand.
… but as has been said, September read often, and liked it best when words did not pretend to be simple, but put on their full armor and rode out with colors flying.