Six Months

Tried to capture the weird weather between January and June in Colorado

January left the windows frosted

and the night air sharp as needles

Every breath left my lungs hot

and tight with blood.

February was January's little sister

she too frosted the doors

and the windows,

sent drafts snaking through the floor of my house,

all with an apology in her little face.

March was a proud one

he willed the fruit trees to bloom too soon,

only to watch the flowers fall away in

sad brown clumps,

the snow stayed and March became somber.

April sat aloof on my porch,

her gaze caused the mountains of snow to melt,

the ground thawed as she watched,

the trees readied their branches for sun,

their pink and yellow buds quivered,

but April fell asleep and ice cold rain

came instead.

May was all anger and turbulence,

he sunk his hands into the clouds

and churned until it turned gray and

dark,

the rains came again, but it was warm

and sweet.

The soil drank it hurriedly,

and when the gray clouds thinned,

the sun revealed her face.

June is sitting, barefoot,

under the peach tree in my yard,

her aged hands clasped over her apron.

She's my favorite; the gentle gardener,

the keeper of the green.

When the sun burns too hot,

and the soil groans for water,

she reaches up to wring water from the sky,

the sky crackles white at her touch,

the soft thunder of her song in the air.