December, rites and revelry;
January: pledged austerity;
February, naught but apricity;
March: predictable inconsistency.
April, wistful bliss, and wet;
May ebullience, fresh on fresh;
June: grace and petals, as in a potion;
July: torpidity, slow motion.
August bounty, ripe with toil;
September. Oh. The earth’s own soul.
October: glory glory, longing . . .
November: dolors, unbecoming.
Ah, thank the gods, again December
And blessed revelry, remember?
Thus the months assured with surety –
Their differences the same, eternally.
Well, until we knocked them all askew
From what we don’t and what we do.
Gone the comfort of each new page –
Random now, months sulk or rage
Whilst we shake heads or storm or cower
At what we’ve wrought with careless power.
—
As a freelancer, Marya Smith has written feature articles, profiles, and essays for a wide range of publications. She has had two play productions at small Chicago theaters, two children’s novels published by Little, Brown and Company, and poetry published in print and online literary journals. She lives in rural northwestern Illinois.
