February, runt of the litter, eager to please, ties flowers in her hair and dazzles with cold sunshine.
March, dizzy from change, whirls through life in ecstasy, tumbling down hillsides and bursting in billowing blossom.
May is hallowed, ancient. In the swirling, ritual tying of her merry dance is the contract between this Island and the warmth in the North.
June is as conflicted as January; he walks languidly in the long light and knows that this will soon pass. He is the tallest of them, fingers brushing away clouds.
July is the fiercest Month, handed June’s gift of the Sun as it slips away moment by moment. She takes it and burns the Earth for every second she can.
August, exhausted by the heat of July’s fury, lies prone, hat covering face, accepting submission, sunburnt at night, pink skin dimpling in the evening chill.
September blushes, seventh place set back to ninth. She stretches like a waking dog, cool enough to walk to school alone.
October booms and blusters, plasters unkempt hair to his face in driving rain, scoops leaves to scatter in pell-mell tornadoes round devils’ feet.
November is a solemn Month. She closes curtains as the after-images of fireworks fade.
December whispers in church, mischief and misrule among the candlelit rosewood. Eager, boisterous, expectant.