January
My lungs inhale the scent sulfur while lying on the newly fallen snow.
My breathing clasps and I am alone in the universe, in the middle of a
Field in the country, a denizen of Winter with the rest of humanity.
February
Fickle reminders make me queasy, as I purchase food from the market,
My shoes squeaking against the white floor, and the red basket in my arms
Filled with your favorite food: an anniversary for one, candlelit.
March
Frozen tundra is ahead of me, but there are signs of hope everywhere.
A river is visible beneath a thin sheet of ice; its colors blue, and gray,
A relief from the everlasting images of white that have plagued me recently.
April
Life is bursting from every corner of the earth, finalizing my happiness.
Birds are singing songs that I’ve never heard, and I hum along with the sound.
Disembarking on spring, the world is green, and my cheeks are windswept.
May
I’m sitting on the edge of a pond, about an hour drive from my house
And the collective clouds in the sky reflect off the cool surface of the water.
The sight is asphyxiating and there’s a funny taste at the back of my throat.
June
Sitting under the shade of an oak tree, I see a stretch of gravel road beyond me.
The day calls for a glass of lemonade, but there’s no one around for miles
As I crack the spine of a piece of classic literature and spend the afternoon in shade.
July
Balloons and confetti fill the airway and it makes me sick to my stomach.
The carnival is in full bloom, and I’m spinning on the Ferris Wheel,
And I hear the distant voices of numerous twelve-year-olds, shouting obscenities.
August
An elephant is staring at me and I wonder what it’s thinking about.
The zoo is crowded, and the woman on my arm is talking about love again;
I reply with meaningless words in a monotonous tone to make her happy.
September
I stare at drainage basins as I walk up and down the avenue.
The chill is coming; I can see it on the horizon as I stop and wait for traffic,
The sounds of horn blasts and a faint buzzing fill my ears.
October
Leaves cover the stoop outside of my house and they breath alongside me.
I hear the couple next door fighting, and I think about their three-year-old son
And where he will be next year as I place plastic over my windows.
November
I jump into the frozen lake on the outskirts of town, and my body contracts.
I feel the rush of cold water and open my eyes to see fractals of sun four feet above me.
My body ascends as I resurface and look up; it has begun to snow.
December
I look at the conglomerate of footprints on my avenue, and look up at streetlight.
It reminds me of a distant planet during a meteor shower, and I cry silently
As children’s voices drift from a window, singing Christmas carols I forgot years ago.