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September Moon MAG
Another rising September moon,
when the ju-ju hounds begin their ghostly
cry and swoon,
And the last Summer sun falls low in early
Oh, these last days seem always so crisp and
pure, as though Summer followed Summer
and the season was endless for sure;
but having witnessed so many a year we all
know it sadly cannot be so.
For even Summer's flowered meadow must yield,
and fall low to the occasional seasonal
mow and cold winter's snow.
Yet in wetter reach, where nay plow nor blade
has yet to breach the Dragonhead spiral
magenta and free, among thick swamp weed
and blazing young maple tree ...
Dreaming back the seasons become so perfect and
clear, from early April's bud as the snow
commenced to disappear ...
Oh my! In April's past, when the warm Spring
sun never seemed to last,
And upon wooded southerly hillside the violet
Hepatica shone, and no longer Winter winds
would moan ...
Yes, 'tis true, the chill of white frosted
ultimately will come, with skies cold and
Yet in all the snowy still there is precious
little to fear ...
For as Spring arrives, and sweet Summer
thereafter, the warm meadow breezes call
the flowers alive, and life again
will burgeon and thrive.
by J. B., Haydenville, MA