The cold hands of January
grasp at February’s promise,
the warmth of March
always just out of reach.

You rub my shoulders,
kiss away the ache
as April continues her rain
over gentle, submissive May.

We sing the song of the whippoorwill,
its haunting anthem spilling
out across the valley floor
when June gives in to July

and August crowns the summer sky.
September will leave
when the colors bleed,
October betrayed by the coming frost.

What will you do
when November comes,
when ice and pain
move in to claim my breath?

Comfort me.
Smile with me.
Lie to me.
Tell me there is no December.

In Trump the idiot sees himself
a winner, strong and smart
making the intelligent cry
and destroying difficulties
with just a word—or a lie—or his fists
now no longer rejects or losers
affirming his beliefs of himself—
the blessed poor for his saviour is come

like a warm breath
on a winters day
giving shelter
just to fade away
you were inviting
and something new
and inevitably
too good to be true

I met with him, again beneath that Willow tree, whose roots ensnared all the land that could be seen.

Though the most striking of imagery, to me, was the fact that December's snow-white sovereignty, was usurped by a vibrant, vital green; the legacy left behind, by the Willow's fallen leaves.

He sat around the table, his back against the lake; his face was as always, nonchalant and noble, as if though unmoved by our date.

I rushed towards him, worried that I was late; fully prepared to apologise and explain, as I would have, could he only wait.

But he, he confirmed my worries with a smile and said. "You would have been ten minutes late, hadn't ten seconds remained. Luckily I told you to meet, ten minutes ahead, so there's still an hour for our date... Friend."

"Friend?" I returned an innocent smile to him, saying. "So, is that the lie that we're telling... to ourselves and them?"

He sighed for bit, absent-mindedly giving the chess pieces a toss and flip.
"Father said... if one tells a lie long enough; it becomes the truth. So I have lied to myself for three months; that a friend is all that I am to you; and you to I."

Clicking my tongue I replied. "Mon amour, that's a difficult lie; and one that I tell myself as well... my own little sample of hell."

"A friend... your friend I will be; and tell myself this lie for an eternity. So long as I can see your smile, beneath this willow tree." I said within my heart, silently.

I love the way you lie
It’s just like an onion
Delicious but makes you cry