In August, I'm not sure if I'm sweating from the heat or from the effort of trying to enjoy summer.
August is all about finding the perfect balance between sun-kissed and sweat-drenched.
In the cold dark days of February, when everything seems dull and lifeless, April is still a long way off. But we can make it seem closer.
It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.
August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
October, the extravagant sister, the beggar maid, has ordered nothing this year. The trees turn to gold, its nothing to her.
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, no fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! November!
March on. Do not tarry. To go forward is to move toward perfection. March on, and fear not the thorns, or the sharp stones on life's path.
July, with sun so hot, you can fry an egg. August, with sun so fine, you can fry an egg and make it yours.
December's wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer's memory.
January, month of empty pockets! Let us endure this evil month, anxious as a theatrical producer's forehead.
May the month of flowers be yours. May the month of blessings be yours. May the month of spring be yours. May the month of new beginnings be yours.