When I was happy in November,
before December brought dark and cold,
I walked over fallen leaves,
never thinking of the dead or old.
I thought of August wells
and September’s visit to the farm.
October was a little cool
but did not do me any harm.
September was the composer—
warm enough to be inspired
by June and July.
October was the instrument—
it made a strange cry.
November was the concert hall;
The admiral will not be paid.
What kind of instrument? my daughter asked.
I don’t know, I answered.
December was the song I played.