This is what I wanted to say
Before I fell muttering over sour coffee:
On october 19, at sunset,
A bright glow traces the place where summer ends
And the promise of winter begins.
Never quite seen then.
Sure, we’ll get the hope, But
Only see how summer has gone woefully stale,
After a few more years,
The rhythm plays loud,
Then, the time will come,
And catch us muttering,
As we look far across the field,
Into the bright October sky.