May

May in Moscow's my favorite month, You feel you live, no longer exist. You look beautiful, no more a moth, Every morning green grass bears some mist. May is for taking long evening walks, Breathing spring air with spirit and scent. In May there's time for meaningful talks Feeding motivation and intent. Then June walks in and it's my birthday. It sweeps you off your feet in a dance. In July you'd curse the heat and say "It's hot!" begging for get-away chance. Each August some disaster happens: Default, hurricane or sudden death. You stack inside your moral weapons And soon long for autumn's cooling breath. September's about kids, new school year, Trees change color and caress our eyes. Don't you think of winter when you smear Hopes and no longer see the skies. October's about walks in cold parks. Meeting good old friends and drinking wine. Can't get enough of talking 'til sparks Come out of eyes. With content you shine. "Summer is little life of its own" That is what Russians like to think. Now it's gone but at least it has shown Us how to live, dissappeared with a wink. November through March's 'bout depression: Dull times, try to get by, day by day. You taste darkest times of agression Then April again takes in dismay.