September
Grace Wooddell
Chilly fingers;
A snap of frosty
Atmosphere
That catches us off guard;
A breeze that slips around
Our t-shirts
And sandals,
Finds the chinks
In our nonexistent armor,
Sweeps away our icecream cones,
Our movie nights, our cannonballs,
Waves goodbye to lazy freedom
And blows away our summer daydreams.