September is a pregnant month
Sifting hope from dying embers
Laying to rest old enigmas,
Where dreams had risen to limited vistas.
Splashing strange colours on the passing plethora,
But holding not that which is timed.
So much must fall before new sights rise
Taking away once clutched at ways,
And drawing a line for season change
Where the unseen can claim its ground.
We have not always wanted this passing,
For pain is too close to a dying.
But nature has hidden ways, gentle urgings,
Promptings of hidden callings
Unveiled and discovered
By the passing pilgrim.
By a practicing Quaker
Thanks go to Andi for sending in the poem. Much appreciated and please thank your friend.