SEPTEMBER

THE golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bearing down.

The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook.

From dewey lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.

But none of all this beauty
Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret
Which makes September fair.

'T is a thing which I remember;
To name it thrills me yet:
One day of one September
I never can forget.

Helen Hunt Jackson

On this day, 28 years ago, Keith Nisbett kissed me for the first time. It was very significant, in that I knew he wouldn't kiss me unless he intended to marry me. I was thrilled. I still am every time he kisses me.