Who owns the coming year?
Who will take care of it?
I stood in a Christmas garden listening
To the voices of the Twelve Ghosts arguing.
"I will take care of it" said January,
"I will anchor it to the earth with garnet and snowdrop."
" It is mine," said February.
"I will feed it the memory of all that grows.
"I will welcome it with the amethyst and the primrose"
"I will celebrate it with bloodstone and daffodil," said March.
"Like a boxer battered by winter
"I will lift myself from the crust of the earth to welcome it."
"With diamond and daisy I will seduce it.
"I'll soak it in shower upon shower," said April.
"In the yawny warm earth its seeds will riot."
"I will make it dizzy with emeralds
And the fumes of the hawthorn," said May.
"It will know of nothing but play."
"And I will adorn it with a necklace
Of honeysuckle and ruby," said June.
"I will drag it away," said July.
"I will handcuff it with briar;
"Drug it with the scent of fat rose."
August spoke from the garden's still centre:
"If so, I will weep layer upon layer of sardonyx.
I will teach it the brevity of poppies."
"When its bones begin to creak
I will cure it with asters and morning-glory,"
promised September.
"It is mine," said October.
"I will woo it with sapphires
And with the swan-song of dahlias."
"Under the weight of the dead chrysanthemums I will bury it.
I will give it a headstone of topaz," said November.
"And I will let it sleep," said December.
"I will let it dream of narcissus and holly,
I will feed it berries the size of a sparrow's heart."
The ghosts of each month passed me;
They fluttered by like moths drenched in rain
And were hardly gone before time drew them back again.
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