I remember January
with the cold, and the tired feeling
of being older again.
With fire engine red hands,
who can't save a thing
for want of warmth.
I remember Feburary,
and forgetting birthdays while loosing days
and that close feeling you get
when everything is still snow
and it's too quiet,
too quiet to be comfortable.
I remember March,
and the spring that's
just-not-here-yet
while feeling sorry for all the flowers
and being sick of things you can't name
or even remember
I remember April,
with mean words and a wet face
and those times you're sure that everything
is just a million little pieces
of worry and doubt and
something that wasn't ever anything.
I remember May,
when it's springspringspring!
and forgiving and forgetting and remembering
and holding a grudge were all sort of the same thing
but it didn't really matter
because we were laughing again.
I remember June
while you wished for winter
and that odd quiet feeling you couldn't remember
can't remember,
and lament you never will.
when water and wishful thinking were your best friends.
I remember July
and that same old complaint
but with the excitement of summer and noise
laughing in the dirt
wondering why things ain't ever been this good
or this alive.
I remember August,
when mix-matched days and weeks
made you want summer back, and then gone again
of wanting hot then cold
and missing rain and then not
and being unsure of which you liked better
I remember September,
with new faces and things you didn't miss.
when grudges came back and things ended.
when fall wasn't really here yet,
but it didn't matter
because you didn't want it anyway.
I remember October,
when you begged to go out,
justthisonce.
and stole candy when you couldn't
cursing school and thinking
fall wasn't as pretty as you thought it was supposed to be.
I remember November,
and not being thankful
of feeling older and tired,
and missing summer so bad.
with arguments about things you hadn't heard since April.
and how the cold came back all at once.
I remember December,
when you're too old, too mature,
to believe in santa anymore.
and you're getting older by the day
with red hands again
wishing for summer.
