August

August is a shaded pathway trailing through a gate.
September is a gate for keeping Autumn in its late.
October is the harvest moon, shattered silver in the trees.
November blows the barren branches, nude without their leaves.
December is the quiet carol, dulcet in the air.
January breathes a promise, frigid through my hair.
February mists a kiss of dew before the morn.
March traces out the edge of sun’s bright halo, sweet and warm.
April buds a wildflower worshiping the day,
shyness overtaken as she blossoms into May.
June naps in the lazy summer, lulled by sunset’s quiet hush
and July is the evening shade on a pathway called August.