October’s bellowing anger breaks and cleaves the bronzed battalions of the stricken wood in whose lament I hear a voice that grieves for battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feud of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown along the westering furnace flaring red. O martyred youth and manhood overthrown, the burden of your wrongs is on my head.
I will remember September. Days when Summer begins its slumber and trees begin to freckle. Crisper evenings will be greeted by ember mornings— shining in awakened glory. I will remember September while walking through Summer’s burnt cinders.