January was warm this year,
as she went walking through the field,
brown ground below early night.
In winter’s life, sycamore is dead,
yet her eyes are the Spring.
They tell secrets to the trees,
stories of hope and new leaves.
And she danced in the starlight,
singing Shakespeare to the night.
January turned cold,
as she walked downtown,
June sidewalk in the rain.
Pavement shrugs below pouring sky,
no time to let the rain inside,
but when old skin is filled with new wine,
will it hold, will it live, or just survive?
She is sitting in the rain
with an umbrella that she made.
Elle vous suit partout.
all rights reserved