She wore death as a coat in December
and slept in until the thirty-first day of February
and she never talked of suicide in June
though if you were to kiss her
in July you could taste the thought
in the tears that stained her lips
and if you caught her singing
to the moon in early September
you might notice she was smiling
just a little
and she was in love with August
but she never let the days know
and she would tell you January
was a waste of time
if you spent it doing anything but napping
she liked to collect ants
from the gardens of March
and wildflowers from the roads of April
and she matched May tear for tear
every time it rained
and she walked with the dead
through November and told them stories
to help them fall back to sleep
October was the season of her heart
and she wore it on a string
she pulled from the skies of eternity
and wore it around her neck all year long