Like summer in some countries and like rain
In mine, for nuns like God, for drunks like beer,
Like food for chefs, for invalids like pain,
You’ve occupied a large part of the year.
The during months to those before and since
Would make a ratio of ten to two,
Counting the ones spent trying to convince
Myself there was a beating heart in you
When diagrams were all you’d let me see.
Hearts should be made of either blood or stone,
Of both, like mine. There’s still December free –
The month in which I’ll save this year, alone.