These Precious Days

Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December
But the days grow short
When you reach September.

Sing it, Frank!

His music was a constant refrain when I was a boy.
My mother was such a Sinatra fan!

I bet I even heard him in utero.

Of course, no child could ever understand the passion.
Or the sadness.

That knowledge only comes much later.

When the Autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
One hasn’t got time for the waiting game.

Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few
September, November

Nature always comes back.

But we do not.

That is the sweet sadness that makes us human.

And that makes the fall so poignant.

Especially in New England.

And these few precious days
I’ll spend with you.

I hope you will join me.
As I celebrate the joys.

And the sorrows.

Of September.

These precious days
I’ll spend with you.