My mother once told me.
That clear, insistent reminder,
Of the stillness that would soon be.
Clouds whispering to a blue sky,
Thirsty leaves rustling in the trees.
A tired butterfly drifting by,
Stealing some life from the breeze.
As the nagging geese set the mood,
The excitement of summer gives way,
To the quiet, the peace, the solitude,
Of a young mother on an August day.
She notices each sound, quiet and clear,
And allows them to briefly transport her,
To that promising, melancholy time of year,
And the sweet, sad sounds of September.