February would be a little girl, small and feeble with a peeping voice. She would be alone, but would bask in her solitude and the simplicity of her young life. She would, very simply, not care about what you and I think of her slight, weak figure. Bundled up in a scarf,with the miniscule buds of tulips and daffodils decorating her thick wool coat, and boots made of the strongest sheepskin, she would skip along the icy lane, leaving minute footprints filled with melting snow.
March would also be a child, a young, frolicking boy who wore a lopsided hat and a thin blue jacket. With a frozen stick in hand, he would walk the world once over, pulling emerging buds and flowers up through the freshly fallen snow. As he would scamper around the globe he would leave a trail of sodden footprints, which would melt more and more each day under the bright sun. The sun, the mother of March, looking over her beloved boy, keeping him safe.
April would be a teenage woman, wearing a thin pink scarf that would flutter in the slight spring breeze. She would follow March on his trek around the earth, opening the flowers that he pulled up. The sun, her mother, would watch over her also.
May would be a young boy, slightly older than April, wearing a t-shirt that would be in the brightest, purest green. Birds would sing around him, and grass would turn the shade of his handmade, carelessly worn clothes. His eyes would be a greenish blue color that would win the heart of every fair maiden whose path he crossed. Yet his only devotion was to June.
June would be a girl, the same age as May, and would love him with her whole, great heart. Under her tender care flowers and and fruits would begin to grow, and the sweet Amalanchier would serve as their evening meal. Together they would blossom into a young, lovely pair.
July would be the carefree daughter of May and June. She would love everybody, the other months and the flowers, the birds, the bees buzzing around her and the sweet vegetables that would grow with her.
August would be a middle-aged woman with blonde hair. With shorts and flip flops on her rested, tanned body she would sit beneath the flowering apple tree and write poems to her world. As her pen would cover her page with beautiful script, she would read melodiuosly aloud to the chickadee and the goldfinch who would sit on her shoulder.
September would be a teenage girl with flaming auburn hair that tumbled around her shoulders wildly and would be ever so slightly curled. Her yellow turtleneck sweater would be all the shades of the trees around her. Her eyes would be a deep, energetic chocolate brown.
October would be September's twin brother, with even more unruly, even more red, hair that would be clipped short, yet look attractive. Together the two would pull leaves the shade of their hair off dying trees, in wait of the dreaded bareness that was soon to come.
November would be a man with dull brown eyes and limp brown hair. He would be handsome in a special way and would turn the brilliant leaves of yestermonth into dry, dead, crackling leaves the shade of his hair, sprinkling snow here and there in preparation for his wife, December.
December would be November's wife, midldle-aged, sister to August. She would be a jolly maiden with vigorous brown hair and bright blue eyes. With a green dress lined in white on her slender, jumping body she would bring gifts to the world, showering the globe with snow and love. On New Year's Eve she would kiss her grandfather January on his cold, dry cheek at the stroke of midnight.
