September Prose

If I were heedless, goodness knows

That I would write September prose.

Ironic how I’d know my place

If I looked uncertainty in its face,

Made peace with things that no one knows;

Then I would write September prose.

The only lover of love is hate,

And tragedy is friends with fate.

“Why?” I ask, but no one knows;

I long to write September prose.

The sparrows know—look how they sing!

Oh, to ask them anything!

September prose I long to write,

Though I find my mind is quite a fright.

Poetic verse entraps me now;

It’s awful—sparrows, tell me how

Escape can ever come my way,

I'll wait a night and dreary day

For an answer no one knows;

I long to write September prose!