a september haze

September: a kiss.
The start of something,
subtle and twilit and golden.
The hazel trees and the wild stars,
are still dancing with summer's ghost.

September: a memory.
Old tinted snapshots,
of quiet darting sparrows,
and a burnt rosy sky,
flood through the veins of the universe.

September: a sigh.
The sharp scent of a bonfire,
and the relief of the dying trees,
causes the whole world to drown,
in its newfound nostalgia.