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Stolen September
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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1

Y’know, there were a time, once, when I was right fond of September.

September. Ah how I once loved September.

As a lad, I loved to steal away early on September days and climb to the top of the world…or so it seemed there on the hill up top of Bag End. I’d climb up when things was all quiet just to taste the morning, crisp as the new apple stashed away in my coat pocket.

I loved to daydream September away in Bag End’s gardens, reading a book and soaking up those last languid afternoons in a world still kissed by the promise of a few yet lingering hours of summer.

But September, once filled to bursting with dreams and promises of bounty and harvest, don’t bring much joy no more. Now there’s only the falling of leaves and the coming of winter – a winter what rightly never leaves you now. Today, as I watch you sit on the door side bench lost in deep thoughts, I can see that the healthy bloom what were once in your cheeks is all but gone now.

But now as your Rose blossoms, hanging the linens on the line and smiling her love at your back, I feel the life that once bloomed in my heart begin to fade – stealing away like autumn mist in the morning sun.

Sensing something right familiar, I stop my mulching. Leaning on the fork, I look up to find you watching me.

Smiling a bit of welcome sunshine, you pause in your task to share the glory of this September day with me and for the briefest of moments I can almost remember, unsullied, what was stolen away.

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