August’s cool cheek is welcome against mine
as I walk, flushed and fast, in the pale gold of winter sun.
The taste of her kiss is in the tang of new apples
and the sugary grain of the pears that I carry.
She slips a sinewy arm around me
when I stand on the wharf
winding me into her wind,
prodding and poking me
with buffeting hands
affectionate and intimate,
she ruffles my hair and
plants an icy peck on my forehead
in a spray of sea water.
August raises her arms to the sky
she begs the firmament
to fill her empty nests
and branches bare.
for spring’s caress
of green to cover her shivering
undress, August folds in upon
herself with secrets that only
winter’s breast can hold,
decaying things in the chilled ground
things unripe, unmade
the frozen foetus of petrified growth
the naked grub in cocooned stasis.
Soon, though, she will turn her face into
the mellowing sun
whose blazing ardour will penetrate her
like a honeymoon embrace,
transforming the ice maiden
her warm belly ripening until
she births herself anew.