September arrived in a terrible state,
brown at the edges and running quite late.
A sprinkle of yellow appeared here and there,
then promptly gave up in the hot, heavy air.

The maples looked puzzled. The oaks looked annoyed.
The grand autumn palette was mostly destroyed.
One branch turned orange, then seemed to regret it.
The rest stayed dull green and refused to commit.

The squirrels were stunned by the heat of the day,
wiping their brows in a frantic display.
One sprawled by the feeder, too weary to run,
and glared with suspicion straight up at the sun.

“This isn’t September!” he seemed to declare.
“Where’s briskness? Where’s wind? Where’s the chill in the air?
Where’s scarlet and crimson? Where’s amber and gold?
Why am I sweating? I’m supposed to be cold!”

The pumpkins sat baking on porches at noon.
The mums drooped sadly and wilted too soon.
The sweaters stayed folded. The scarves stayed inside.
The boots, deeply offended, had nothing to hide.

A few brittle leaves made a halfhearted show,
then landed in grass that was thirsty below.
No glorious blaze swept the trees overhead—
just brown, beige, and yellow with patches of dead.

Somewhere, no doubt, September has flair,
with red leaves and cider and frost in the air.
But here, summer lingers, quite pleased with its stay,
while autumn keeps checking the date every day.

So September sits fanning itself with a leaf,
embarrassed, exhausted, and begging relief.
It mutters while staring at skies hot and blue,
“I swear I had something more colorful planned for you.”

—Jill Szoo Wilson