Riding in luxury on a sofa in the back of Denis’s pickup, seeing the beautiful Klamath country in style. We were driven directly under a rainbow that day, so it was on either side of us as we passed! photo by Georgia Moriarty
September is the Cruelest Month
One cruel month is January, murdering December––
failed resolutions of last year we’re now forced to remember.
February rivals it for those with lovers missing––
conjuring up memories of valentines and kissing.
March may come in cruelly–a lion or a ram,
but it is not the cruelest month. It goes out like a lamb.
April is the the month of rain and flowering and rhyme.
It cannot be the cruelest month. It is the most sublime.
May is not a cruel month, nor June, most surely not.
July and August are most kind––luxurious and hot.
September is the month for me that is the cruelest.
September is the month where I received my biggest test
in learning how to live alone after so many years,
conquering the loss of you. Battling my fears.
September was the month you left because you had to go––
away from planned adventures down a road you didn’t know.
Setting off alone–something you rarely did in life,
where you preferred to travel with a lover or a wife.
October found me no man’s wife, November found me gone
to take the road that we had planned. I would not be death’s pawn.
Then that December–– crueler than any month I’ll own.
That was the month I had the time to finally feel alone.
The prompt today was to write about “The cruelest month.”