June.
Sun high now, high; grass deep, deep. Freedom from educational tyranny, the spirit-stifling reign of banal terror. Coiled boy-spring released.
And I'm shattered. He's been taken out of my life. Season of solar climax, of high greenery, and he's permanently, cruelly gone.

July.
Deep green now, richer than springtime's pastel. Thunderstorms punctuate. Road-dust hangs.
And I'm lost. Wander the house, wander the mall, all the same, all dark. Season of limitless blue skies, and I'm in deep eclipse, high sun and blackest shadow.

August.
Summer's old now, faded like a wall-calendar left unturned too long. Heat and somnolence. Buzz of insects across acres of thick afternoon.
And I'm suffering. Season of summer's ripeness, and there's a deep winter chill across my soul.

September.
Golden now, grass is high as it's gonna get, about to fall from the sheer weight of age. School, friends, soccer, homework, another year of daily tedium and fitful joy.
And I'm in despair. Season of cool renewal after summer's oven heat, and I'm desiccated, I'm a shell.

October.
Red, ochre, brown now, harvest wound down, the moon grows large and yellow, and the nights grow.
And I'm curdled. Season of closing doors, and my door is stuck open, I can't get out of the icy draft.

November.
Somber brown frosted fields now, skies going gray-white, snow-thick oblivion approaching.
And I'm frozen. Season of crystalline whiteness on every grassblade, and it can't match the ice through my veins.

December.
Whirling whiteness hides the land now, winds snatch all comfort, electric color-bulbs the only sign of cheer in a bleak world.
And I'm drowning. Season of white, white, white, and all I can do is struggle and cry in the blackness.

Christmas Eve.
Winter's darkest days, deep blue twilight, joy to the world illuminating the depths.
And I'm about to make the final slip, I'm so far down, there's no rope and no escape
(and the sound of a knock on the door, my mom calls "Danny, can you get it", and I almost don't rise to answer, I almost turn my face to the wall, and some last spark brings my feet across the rug and I drag the door open.........
and.................
I am.......
oh, I am)
he's back, I'm alive with the shining fire, he's back, I'm so full, reunion, he came back, reunion reunion and oh my soul rises forever in the pale morning light. Season of birth amid desolation, and he's back, so briefly, just a few days, but who cares, HE IS BACK, and we go upstairs and the world goes away and we reunite, we drink so deeply from the pent-up well of emotion and hot summer color, so very long delayed, so very deeply craved, so good,

and January is a million miles away...

~