Annalise Wellman

The fervid summer Earth glows,

Censing the fallen leaves of oak groves-

Diffusing redolence of autumn into the air-

Hints of anticipation, cinnamon, and cloves;

September, you sit on the tip of August’s tongue,

As if the memory of you is just out of reach,

I must remain remiss and in bliss,

Not to wake my limerence for your kiss.

The bête noire of all my phantasms-

The painted face of every incubus,

I confess, I pray August never ends-

Forgive me, September, if this offends,

Torment skulks from my thoughts to my heart-

Coalescing with my ribs in knotty vines-

Hold fast the caudex above the mass,

Extirpate all ramifications that have taken root,

It is true I never knew terror until I knew you,

Dear September, your gluttony is crude

You are a changeling, taking the dearly beloved-

Leaving me full of desiderium in fields of rue,

You picked all my pearly daisies,

Even as I begged you to leave me a few,

But by some measure, I still love you, September,

Even as you use me this cruel.

~Annalise Wellman