You bring us nights with raised windows, snuggling under quilts in the wee hours.
You mark the time with morning glories
and turn the roadsides yellow.
You remind the hummingbirds that it is time to migrate, to journey over a thousand miles to places with warm winters. They know they will have to be fat for the trip, so they fight for the feeders, flashing their ruby throats for our amusement.
You sober us with the knowing--summer, the time for growing and gathering, for swimming and playing, for travel and iced tea, no matter how wonderful or fruitful it has been--summer always ends.
September. So beautiful, you strengthen us during the transition, and help us face the winter that will surely come.
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.