In March, I used a poetry prompt of the phrase “My March.” The poem received wonderful feedback on Instagram, and a couple people suggested that I write similar ones for the other months of the year. Easily distracted procrastinator that I am, it has taken me until December to complete one poem for every month, but they are done. Here they are.
My January
My January creaks with age, its joints aching from cold as it begins another rotation around the sun, saying, "Here we go again." My January rises too early in the morning and trudges off to work, carrying its best intentions in a pocket full of holes. My January persists and carries on and forward, like a ship tossed on the frigid sea, with nowhere to stop until it reaches that distant shore.
My February
My February is a kaleidoscope, taking all the things I've already seen and splintering them into new versions of the same old, same old. My February spins in circles, swirling January's secondhand snow, tossing it like confetti, trying to get excited about it. My February is a short song on repeat, and just when I've grown tired of it, I discover I've been singing all the wrong words.
My March
My March settles softly around me, like a fog of mist descending, lamblike and gentle. My March tastes of early morning rain and shamrock kisses. As my rain boots sink into green grass, my March anchors me in this month-long blink of time, full of newness and blooms.
My April
My April ambles down the lily-lined way, singing Easter Alleluias with a resonant voice. My April twirls a pastel pink parasol under cloudy gray skies, knowing the sun will come out soon to greet the new blossoms. When thunder rumbles and shakes the rafters, my April knows the storm will pass.
My May
My May arrives as a wave of melody on the shimmering ocean of which I'm just a drop, finding the song written only for me. My May is an obsession, a taste I don't want to fade from my tongue, a doorway to a secret room, a new beginning of the same circle. My May whispers to me all the lyrics I never knew, the answers to questions I was afraid to ask, and the mantras to carry me along and keep my feet from sinking in the mud.
My June
My June is a sigh of relief, a moment of silence, an afternoon nap in a sunbeam that leaves the mind as calm as a towering green oak tree. Waking up, my June cracks its knuckles, ready to begin the serious business of summer, bike rides, late nights, and fruit-flavored wines. My June is as fresh as a prize hen, preened and fluffed for the county fair, strutting its stuff for a blue ribbon that means more than what it is.
My July
My July licks the sweet, sticky juice of popsicles as it melts down between knuckles. My July pops and cracks like fireworks, arriving with a fanfare of noise, refusing to go unnoticed, claiming its full share of attention. All heat and passion, my July is made of bare arms and thighs and knows the boldness of the body, the burden and blessing it is to be human.
My August
My August stretches as long as a free afternoon lounging on a beach towel, ripe and humid, a citrus kiss of summer. My August swelters on the front porch swing, sipping lemonade under a hot pink sunset. My August takes its full share of sunny days and holds them high in the air, watching over symphonies of cicadas and choruses of crickets.
My September
My September welcomes the harvest, bringing bushels of apples, and wanders the overgrown fields under cornflower blue skies. My September loves summer with an obvious crush and holds on a little too long, blushing under the attention and turning the leaves red. My September, fickle and eager, has a wandering eye and flirts with fall, ready to enjoy the crisp, cool evenings in the warmth of a lover's arms.
My October
My October burns like a bonfire, consuming those decayed things for which I no longer have need, turning this wreckage into light that brings shadows to life. Speaking in its harsh, brittle language, crunching and cracking, my October has secrets to reveal and will not go down quietly. My October rises like the dead each year to remind me that it's still here as its ghosts whisper from the dark, beckoning me to stay.
My November
My November huddles in houses, buries itself under blankets, and hides in whatever pockets of warmth it can find. My November burns the midnight oil and stays awake after the party has ended, swallowing the last of the mulled wine, gone cold in coffee mugs. Rising in the chill, my November flutters to the window to watch the day roll in with a fog-whitened sky.
My December
My December dances like a music box ballerina, as light as sparkling snow as it falls. My December warms itself by the fireplace draped in holly garland, as it watches winter wander in, strolling down the path lined with evergreen trees. My December wraps the year up in a red velvet bow and shimmers with wishes for the future.
And there you have the whole year. If you enjoyed these, consider checking out my poetry books Woodland Spirits and Gothic Souls or following my Instagram poetry account @autumnalfyre.
Michelle Wicklow 