The seasons are poetry. But also a pain in the ass.

Dark and cold November makes everyone cry alas.

She loved me when February was freakishly warm,

And though I joked about this loving fact,

Maybe it was the reason. Sweet love is mostly an outdoors act.

An act of poetry, to be sure,

And when the buds rioted under a warming sun she loved me even more.

But as I crammed poetry into the months ahead,

She grew tired of poetry, and by December our love was dead.

The leaves of poetry turn. Leaves turn red, and fall.

Didn’t you love me? Didn’t you love me, after all?

The tilt of the earth makes the seasons pass.

Christmas is cold. Cold, alas.

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