it's about the time for me to write again. september is still here. and so is america.
september. a month less-celebrated, but also, to borrow tom jones' words, a time of the year when life is slow and mellow. when grass is green, and grain is yellow.
the month when love is an ember about to billow. even in the deep frost of december, when you know the snow will follow, it's nice to remember the fire of september.
for me, september means something more. a rainbow caught me then. in the middle of new york jungle. with em. and everything is by the way.