Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

August, again: a bringer of fire-
flies, a sender of sparks to the torch-
wood of late summer elms; the days
a tangle of limbs and a panting

in the push of sudden heat,
and I miss you. September comes
a slow burn of oak and chrysanthemum,
a smolder of low morning fogs,

the sparks of starsprent skies, falling,
and a press of yet-warm breaths following
October down into a fall of skyflame and the killingfrost.
And I miss you. November comes

a drift of grey ash evenings,
a char of starlings high in blacksmoke plumes
across the heat of the endmonth suns
embering on the hearth of December dusks,

and I miss you. January comes
a whitedrift ghost, a wanderer
of winter sear and cinder to render
the boles of the deepwood in ruins

of elder light, and I miss you. February comes
a promise to warm the hard ground
(cold as a heart made bitter young),
of March and its thaw of the hulls

where prisms sleep; May comes
a leave for the greening, April
a white blossom pressed between, June
a coaxing of blade and stem

for the suns of July to draw fire
again for the fireflies of August,
and August and August yet again,
and, oh. Oh, I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

excellent description of just how long a year can be when your heart aches....enjoyed the coined compound words, and the emotion that comes with it all....there is nothing quite like the pain of loss.....you have poetically illustrated the time factor