When September Ends

I did the best I could.
For this most glorious of months.

It is my annual challenge.
I hope I was worthy of it this year.

Neither age.

Nor pestilence.

Nor infirmity.

Could blunt the edge of my devotion.

Wonderful faces.

Wonderful places.

A sonnet. A villanelle.



And a bit of scholarly reading.

Some fine beverages.

Lots and lots of walking.

And soon a chance to kick back and savor all the memories.

October will have delights of its own.

As the Poet said to autumn:

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too.

But for now, the race is run.

Goodbye, September.



Until we meet again.

My dear old friend.