I could call you February,
short and sweet.
Unfulfilled as yet; for now you can do nothing
but look ahead. Your plans
and dreams and games
grasp at the promise of what may be.
Shall I call you April?
Fresh-faced and wilful;
sun comes creeping like your smile
through intermittent showers of rain.
Teenage kicks and true love
shattered
into a curtain of beaded tears
you hang in your door.
Now I’ll call you August,
at your height.
Fruitful and welcoming; a home filled
with warmth and a basking cat
who shares your life.
But glancing sometimes behind,
to run manicured fingers
through tattered and cherished
remnants of youth.
And if I called you November
would you weep for the ending
or smile for the memories
and the wisdom
and the time?