Come September

Come September

In the June of our love,
he looked at me
with questioning green eyes
that almost seemed to ask
whether I would still love him
when the blooms had faded.

Come September,
when the colors of our passion
were no longer riotous,
the letters of his name
spelled comfort more than desire.

I could not answer in June
except I knew that
his name would
always sound like
love on my lips, forever.
And so it has.