It is June, and still the rains crash,
the minute hands on a clock slide past, and still the window remains wet.
It is July, and still the sun burns,
a metronome of seconds tick, and still the shadows do not learn.
It is August, and still the air is crisp,
the hours played in syncopated taps, and still lungs collaspe.
The birds are ducked into their nests,
The bees into their hives,
The trees, rooted in the ground, grateful for no eyes.
It is September, and still flowers wither,
the light tries to be bright...but it only gets dimmer.
It is October, and the nights drag on,
the sun was supposed to reapper, but it's gone, gone, gone.
It is November, and still the clouds grumble,
the oppressive dark refuses to be humble.
The sun fades, but the sunset remains,
The night goes, but the stars twinkle.
When it is dawn, there will be a fresh line for the play.
It is December, and still the cold pierces,
far in between are traces of the alive thing, traces.
It is January, and still the blue skies deepen,
far down is a plummeting drop that seems to be creeping, it's not.
It is February, and still there is frost,
far far away from warming the wings of the lovebugs, poor things.
The birds are ducked into their nests,
The bees into their hives,
The trees, rooted in the ground, grateful for no eyes.
It is March, and now the bears crawl from their holes,
The shimmer of the water flashes with promise.
Who knows?
It is April, and now the flowers bloom,
sweet development is as their perfume.
For growth, there is still room!
It is May, and now smiles fly on faces,
it's crazy how you find what you want in the strangest places!
The sunrise remains.
The stars twinkle.
Another month has come again!
There is a fresh line for the play!
YOU ARE READING
And Me...
PoetryThis is just a collection of poems that I've written and the others that I plan to write. I'm not claiming to be some epic poet, but I hope you all enjoy. Thanks for reading (if you read) and thanks for commenting (if you speak). Your choice :)
