Winter threw its shadow over the river of my years.
I only lived one third of my life: the months
April, May, June and July.
August was too close to September—
When the year started down into darkness and coolness to die.
Drinks were poured and merriment was forced
In the prison of those dark days. August
Had days like fall, and the darkening fall filled my heart
With gloom. I grew melancholy in the last days of July,
Grieving for the blossoms of May,
Opening buds reaching for the sky,
And the hopes of April,
And June’s longest day.
I attached myself to one who hibernated,
Who loved only in the presence of love.
In a cave, I told her she was the one.
It was a warm cave. I was lost. And I didn’t see the sun.