What a pity September only “hath 30 days.”

After this particularly soggy summer, September shone on Down East Maine in a golden brilliance almost blinding. And we didn’t want it to end.

The month was absolutely splendid weatherwise – in total contrast to the previous days and weeks of fog and rain, clouds and coolness. September with its 30 welcome days was warmer than high summer, clearer than glass and calm as a shallow pond.

Its sunsets glowed redder than the crackling wood fire on the rocks where we grilled hot dogs, and its nights blinked with falling stars. Every other night, it seemed, cruise ships lit up the bay: giant, towering vessels twinkling with lights that vanished in the distance like Christmas tree bulbs unplugged before bedtime.

There were late afternoons when the clouds resembled rows of cotton bolls ready for picking; there were sunsets behind the mountain that spread blood-colored rays across such an expanse the bay itself looked ablaze. There were twilights in September when the sky turned the color of wild plums, then the shade of deep purple before night.

The days were bright with sunshine and asters, goldenrod and phlox. Grasshoppers and crickets chirped in the field. Pumpkins were piled high at roadside stands where Cortlands and cabbage, sweet corn and squash were offered. Bales of hay filled the backs of trucks, and the woods began to smell musky.

September – with its misted mornings, its warm days and nights cool enough to kindle a fire. A month when tall cattails stood guard in the marshes and the berries on bittersweet vines popped open in orange and gold the color of gourds – or maple leaves.

Boisterous blue jays out back at the feeders were the exact color of the sky. The hydrangeas, drooping with heavy blooms, turned from white to rosy pink, and cobwebs coated the cedar bushes early each morning.

September was the brass ring we tried to grab from a spinning carousel all summer … finally succeeding.

We reluctantly gave it up the other day. But we tried to maintain an optimistic view for what lay ahead of us. We’ll just have to think of Helen Hunt Jackson and her words:

“O suns and skies and clouds of June, and flowers of June together, ye cannot rival for one hour October’s bright blue weather.”