September's dying, cooling body
on the floor, gasping grasps
and half-spoken last words. Her
sunny hands paling at her sides
and blood drains from her chilling
face. No strength to keep eyes
open, we sit vigil for her and refuse
to shed a tear. Her red-headed
sister will come a day too late,
dripping mourning weeds of autumn
hues and blazes, her auburn eyes
glinting a different angle and her
breath biting frost, her bitter
fingertips stroking the leaves from
my trees. September's dying,
and we couldn't bother to mourn.
We take turns playing eulogy, how
we couldn't take a turn to bask
in summery glow or bathe in early
fall's teary storms; we took the
cement steps and asphalt paths
and let her slip to her demise
without a proper goodbye. Now
as she lisps her last regrets and
sorrowful sighs, we shrug and let
her pass into nothing's eyes. It's
bittersweet and melancholy how
we don't move to give comfort to
her shuddering sputters or offer
cool water for her parching tongue
just sit and wait this living wake
until she slips and slips and dies.