January strides in with frost-bitten
fingers, shaking snow from his hat,
his boots clomp sharp against silence,
February follows, softer in her step,
a scarf pulled tight against sharp winds,
whispering promises of returning light.
March carries mud on her sturdy shoes,
her breath warm with whispers of tulips.
April skips puddles, her laughter trailing
in ribbons, the air faintly perfumed.
May leans against the garden gate, smiling,
her hands full of lilac and rain.
June hums in a sunlit hammock, her
toes brushing the edge of a summer breeze.
July sings bold ballads in fireworks\' glow,
lifting joy like lemonade to her lips.
August lingers slow by the lake\'s edge,
a bronzed arm casting shadows at dusk.
September buttons up, sharp-eyed and
determined, notebooks tucked beneath one arm.
October arrives cloaked in crisp gold,
her breath a faint exhale of bonfires.
November moves through bare forests,
her footsteps hushed by fallen leaves.
December wraps you in frost-trimmed scarves,
spinning stories lit by the hearth\'s glow.