He was spring.
Morning dew which glazed my mind,
Faint sunlight that broke
through grey Mondays
But I was left bleating while my
April showered.

Then Summer,
Her hot ‘n’ heavy freedom.
Intoxicating afternoons caused dehydration,
or over-hydration.
A midsummer night turned a lonely August
spent recovering from heat’s stroke.

Autumn eyed
and jack’o’lantern smiled. An attraction
from a dad-designed haunted house.
Motorcycle-wielding and leather-clad.
I now know that ******’s not just a movie,
and how to deal with Hitch-*****.

Ice unthawed
Through the sprunging of spring.
An impossibly unmelted slushy.
A waterlogged log unburnt by Fawkes’ Fire.
Am I winter because they’re gone? Or.
Are they gone because I’m winter?