July threw my heart to the sea; it went floating. He said it would come back to me if I send a boat in. But before I could, wind swept August off the woods and left her soaring. And before I knew, I heard the sea. He said: "September is a thief, he's a tear of grief and October's cold breeze can't set him falling. He would only stay to warm up; to go away until there comes a day when he hears November's calling."
I peeked over the fences, went out of my senses; November was a life and a death so stalling. There was only December and all I could remember was how January's leaves fell off trees to gather up and catch a breeze, and leave my heart crawling.