February

This month is pretty much like that one.

With its reverie of long years past,
The stargazing in the enchanted wood,
The warp and weft of small memories,
The colours of the restless mind.
The world spins the same way
Round and round on its carousel.
Sunshine fills up every pore of our beings,
The dew drops off the edges of leaves,
The boundless abyss of the earth throbs the same,
And yet, the seasons have rolled past
and life is not  the same.
The dawn that rolls in through the windows
thickly, softly leaves his poetry behind. The breeze
 scatters the burnt sienna of sunflower seeds.
And the white wicker chair lies empty at the gate.