September roses mean more. To begin with, they are so much rarer than roses in June, which overflow from every corner and every garden. In September, a rose is often a singular thing, popping up unexpectedly in some late-season second-showing, usually smaller but somehow richer of color than its high summer brethren. September roses remind me of the delicate preciousness of life, something we might forget in the riotous sunny tumult of summer, when the rambunctious growth of a garden goes on untethered and unchecked. By this time of the year, I want to cut it all back, to start again in the way only a spell of winter can provide.
OH, IT’S A LONG, LONG WHILE FROM MAY TO DECEMBER
AND THE DAYS GROW SHORT WHEN YOU REACH SEPTEMBER
THE AUTUMN WEATHER TURNS THE LEAVES TO FLAME
AND I HAVEN’T GOT TIME FOR THE WAITING GAME
Perhaps you’re thinking it’s much too soon to use the threat of winter. And perhaps you’re right. There’s so much fall first. Beautiful, fleeting, heartbreaking fall, captured in a song with a tinge of sadness, a tinge of September. The blush of a rose is less bashful now. We’ve already taken our clothes off.
OH, THE DAYS DWINDLE DOWN TO A PRECIOUS FEW
SEPTEMBER, NOVEMBER
AND THESE FEW PRECIOUS DAYS I’LL SPEND WITH YOU
THESE PRECIOUS DAYS I’LL SPEND WITH YOU.
