by Sarah J. Martin
A song for the birthday of boisterous October!
She celebrates, lavish, for thirty-one days.
Her moods and emotions are all things but sober;
We smile and indulge this extravagant phase.
Her trappings are richer, her dresses are redder;
She’s hymns in the wind and a laugh in the skies;
And when she discards her red scarf and gold sweater
Confetti leaves fall as she weakens and dies.
For perish she must, and give way to November;
But, different entire from the dying of men,
Next year, when it’s past the last day of September,
October will rise for her birthday again.
Sarah lives in the rocks and trees of cottage country, where she loves family, words, old books and buildings, and light in all its forms.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy