As December draws closer,
holly feels more like decor
than an evergreen;

your picture, cloudier than before
and more dream-like.

Summers seem to fly, now
like this red bird does
when I hang out the wash
leaving just one feather
to remind me of our love.

Autumn is just a passing glance
while I crave winter,
only because it brings us closer
to my dearest April
in twisted breeze,

blowing dandelion kisses,

where rain drowns the sound of trains,
the cry of that last telephone call
and the death of March.



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