I hate cold September mornings.
When the mist rises from
the warm water of the lake.
like smoke signals to a God.

I know it is a harbinger
of what is being taken from me.
The swirling rapids now turned red
with falling maple leaves
stealing all the colour
from the trees.

I can hear the still warm breezes
remaining from the dying summer.
Whispering almost tauntingly
"Its coming"  Beware ..Beware.

I am never ready
not just yet.
September is a thief.
I will never forgive it
for all that it has
stolen from me
Especially for taking you.