September, love, with fresher winds
all that summer promised brings:
A harvest full of bounteous gifts –
whom shall we praise for this?
‘Who but Hu?’ September sighs.
‘Who is Hu?’ the heart replies,
while in the dappled, turning woods
angels wink from russet hoods.
‘Who is Hu?’ they laugh and sigh,
in wind and leaf their forms disguised.
‘Die, sweet soul, before you die,’
the message from each almond eye.
So we read from Nature’s book
and walk the rustling path of love;
glimpse Mevlana’s graceful whirl,
gown of yellow leaves-a-twirl.
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