C. K. Tower



I heard December making love last night.
He and I haven't spoken much this year.
I recall a brief rendezvous of smiles,
as he scattered wet ivory kisses
over my raised lips and along my hair.
But those first days in our yearly affair

are fugitive moments. Soon, he's after
another dalliance. And I find him
whispering sweet, frangible syllables
to every nude and licentious softwood...
he woos and caresses, before dancing
off to charm a Rubenesque oak. They don't

mind his brisk seduction. They have their own
agenda... he keeps them occupied while
their lutetium-mouthed consort is away
on holiday. I ignore his intrigues,
save, when he lowers his mantle to lie
over hushed fields... then I am envious.


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