Eleven Months

To the Mother of All Seasons

     Who celebrates her first eternal birthday

              Next month

Eleven months and this life goes on—

Some with passion; others, total abandon.

Days stretch to weeks then months. Soon, years

I get hit with melancholy and my pen cries my tears.

Eleven months, long time filled with colour and beauty,

Yet I do not fully rejoice, for a colour is amiss, sadly.

The colour of royalty does not grace my searching eyes,

No matter how I blink or make my eyes look twice.

Eleven months of constant noise-filled silence—

The world moves on, not noting an absence.

The deafening silence overwhelms me so

When rain pounds the roof and slashes the window.

Eleven months of two works and a card of sweet memory—

That is all I have, and the emptiness that haunts me.

I eagerly wait for the rain to flood and slash and pound—

Then I will hear that uplifting, musical sound.