Post by David Nelson Bradsher on Jan 20, 2008 14:08:46 GMT -5
A Year of Sundays
As if a breathing god,
the night exhales a glaze
of ice to frost the sod
on January days;
a pale-enameled scene,
a coverlet of white,
devouring the green
with February’s bite.
Icicles overarch
the metal gutter-sluice
until the tongue of March
breaks winter’s cincture loose,
beginning thus the thaw
of April’s reckoning,
unhinging nature’s jaw
to let the robins sing
the aria of May,
an avian refrain
that sets the bright array
of spring’s enlivened reign.
But June is there to plot
its temperamental air
to swirl, untamed and hot,
into a solar stare,
which glares into July,
the iris—orange-red—
of one unblinking eye
inside a humid head.
The Cyclops rears and breathes
a heaviness of heat
as angry August seethes
and blurs the boiling street.
September, like a salve,
soothes summer parch and burn
on Earth, which yearns to have
the cool autumnal turn
to pumpkin, rust and squash,
October’s harvest tones,
the ancient hues that wash
over the oaken bones.
November will begin
the cycle winding round
as leaves (and seasons) spin
and float to rest aground.
December comes to go,
the winter winds portend,
by armoring to blow
a year to meet its end.
As if a breathing god,
the night exhales a glaze
of ice to frost the sod
on January days;
a pale-enameled scene,
a coverlet of white,
devouring the green
with February’s bite.
Icicles overarch
the metal gutter-sluice
until the tongue of March
breaks winter’s cincture loose,
beginning thus the thaw
of April’s reckoning,
unhinging nature’s jaw
to let the robins sing
the aria of May,
an avian refrain
that sets the bright array
of spring’s enlivened reign.
But June is there to plot
its temperamental air
to swirl, untamed and hot,
into a solar stare,
which glares into July,
the iris—orange-red—
of one unblinking eye
inside a humid head.
The Cyclops rears and breathes
a heaviness of heat
as angry August seethes
and blurs the boiling street.
September, like a salve,
soothes summer parch and burn
on Earth, which yearns to have
the cool autumnal turn
to pumpkin, rust and squash,
October’s harvest tones,
the ancient hues that wash
over the oaken bones.
November will begin
the cycle winding round
as leaves (and seasons) spin
and float to rest aground.
December comes to go,
the winter winds portend,
by armoring to blow
a year to meet its end.
