April is a starched petticoat Gutsy and gusty and stiff Dripping moisture From her lips To awaken dormant plants Bathe them with caressing hands Before they fully bloom August is a gentle lass All lithe and barely clad Still barefoot, crushing leaves Her fragrant garland Sits askew On her flowing auburn strands An ambassador to the windy season She glides with tact and manners expecting us to clear away dead leaves in her wake
The A Months
Two months walk the year like sisters with different tempers.
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