We cram the year into the yawning fire:
December for its wolf-dark winter sky,
October for the trick-or-treat that wasn’t,
April and March for lockdown’s slapdash ire,
July for momentary respite, May
for nothing, really, but the incessant
desire for a return to life as-was.
The fire glows boldly—in go thirty days
for June; November with its Great Big Lie
lies smoldering beneath a calm still life
of violins and peaches. Last year burns—
remorseless, unforgiving. Butterflies
of gleaming ash concede the epitaph,
dissipate as the hissing bonfire churns.