It tastes like january
in the tentative patterns
of heaven’s crystalline tears,
pirouetting their final descent
to longing lips.

It looks like april
when the crocuses begin to yawn,
nestled within cracks of earth
still quivering from
March’s sodden embrace.

It smells like july
in the sharpness of gunpowder clouds
coasting atop a glass surface
languidly lapping,
spirited technicolor constellations
interrupting mother nature’s
scheduled programming.

It sounds like september
when the splashing
of salted crests, and crooning
of gulls
fade into the gray
of pencils,
graphite grinding upon
a white in waiting.

It feels like october
as orange, sinewy flesh
slides between charged fingers
probing for seeds,
hanging from
the rafters
of Charlie Brown’s
great pumpkin.

Flourishing is this
pentamerous harmony,
existing myriad in the
vigor of living.