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While the May Flowers grew

we watched each other bloom,

both of us growing and

coming out to ourselves.

As she became tall and mature

I remained a short and callow boy,

one that would call her Mother while

sitting with her until even the stars went to bed.



And in the

arid August Heat

where the sweat

pours like champagne and

clothes stick uncomfortably to skin,

I would lie back as she stood high,

dozing under the shade she would create,

excitedly dreaming of

adventures I'd endeavour come September;

listening to the lyrical

"hush"

she'd create when the wind ruffled her hair





But as autumn began to set,

my life changed like the October Leaves.

No longer did I go outside to see her.

No longer did I refer to her as Mother.

I would see her waiting there for me

but

I had better things to do:

better people to be with; and

after all that waiting,

her hair began to fall and

her skin began to peel:

Her beauty was abating.



Now, as the February air

chills every bone in my body,

the protection of my quilt does nothing to

shield me from her lonely shadows

that

creep upon my walls, each

body-writhing screech the monter's fingers make upon my window

a forlorn howl that whistles through the wind



"Please,

give me back my

sun."