Wanings

Her thin crescent lurks in the fog,
As lingering September pomp,
On a morning more like a bog
Or moody Man-Thing gothic swamp;
A final parting grin of sorts
From summer's fading luster
Where naked heaven still cavorts,
In nostalgic tinsel bluster,
Clear through a fresh autumnal dawn
Still struggling to clear itself
Like the anti-meridian yawn
From some hung over midnight Elf,
Still smitten by September sun...
Now by October...quite undone!