A Book of Months

Ship shape and able, I set out upon the waters of spring to earn my living as a lover of life; happy eyed and full of tumbled joy.  

Life and golden days ensued with nary a drop of sooty rain. 

May came in with blood red tulips and new love, oh what a May.

The June days swept by long and lovely,

July waded in with thick air and a promise.

August had that pushy frankfurter smell, and squeaky hot carouselous days.

September walked on stage with a serious note and a book.

October was almost too cavernous to bear with its skeletal revealings and its eaten leaves with frayed stems. 

November is a waiting month, things dim, and nothing seems to happen.

Now, it is December with that false glee and artificial lightness born from dark closed-in evenings with blue reflections and sometimes a warm fire with a mate, ending with a weary ribbon.

I remember those Januaries past with their stark colorless streets and brown lacy weeded edges in the countryside, hopelessly shortened days hunting for a point. 

February spends its days flicking lighters, trying for a yellow flame and a pink dawn harbinger. 

Do you remember March?

April comes along with a bit of a gleam and a snowdrop on the wing. 

Can we bear another May of breaking beauty, petal soft with burning scissored love and longing? 

Ah, June.  Now there’s a Month!