With thanks to Kristi at Free Verse Revolution
June is the worst month. None of the fresh optimism of spring, the frenetic blustery energy of July or the languidly horizontal effortlessness of heavy, lazy August. June doesn’t smell… unlike moist Autumn with her crispy leaves decaying under our feet, the clingy humid soil covering our skin like an overly affectionate friend. June is no Winter, totemic in its association with death; the stillness of an unbroken snowy field and the still finality of a cold coffin lying in state inside a freezing church…
…and yet, even as I think these things I realise that I can hear my heartbeat. I can hear words as well. My voice, slowly fading in, saying these things out loud, as she stares at me with her head cocked onto one shoulder. I look up and meet her patient eyes and we have a moment of utter, ringing silence. She asks me are…
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