Who are you September?

Magical month of the virgin, clean, fresh, innocence, that which is not owned, I welcome you in spades. Crickets and cicadas sing you in, cool wind and clear afternoons beckon you away towards the whisper of winter. I love this space that lives beyond the years of longing, the silence of freshness on our doorstep, nothing but the sleepy months ahead. You are the sweet unknown. The defense of green fades into grey, or maybe yellow and red, until there is nothing but the bones. Why do we love the fall?