The first was September, late sun,
October brought a language of decay,
mushrooms, lichen, liver-spots on her skin.
She swallowed, and birthed November—
grey month of continual rain.
And sucking the next seed, she sucked light
from the sky, let night conquer December.
Not a winged insect alive on the air,
she created a January so raw it engendered courage.
She put another in her mouth
and set free the sharp frosts of February—
how bittersweet the pips, their ruby flesh
so sensuous, the white seed tart and bitter.
She smiled and winced,
tears in her eyes,
eyes watering in the March wind,
her lips stained with sugar.