Rosy mornings begin early on!
Yet even at eleven shadows grow,
Lengthening near noon, drawn by
The sun's shortened arc.
Then, in exchange for day, early evening
Slips gentle arms around trees, homes,
And humanity. Stars step out to spangle
An inky sky while I, clasping summer's last rose,
Heedless of its thorns, acknowledge how awesome
This eleventh month! How near we are to
Wondering which one it will be.