They say it’s January that has two faces,
But if you ask me, it’s June;
One face promising the longest day,
The other subtracting the radiance away.
At first it doesn’t trouble you much –
After all, July still supplies a surplus of sun –
But as August continues to call in the loan,
You start to lament the debt yet to be paid.
If September days maintain a respectable balance
Between solar rays and the moon’s reflection,
October and November prove more parsimonious
With the sky’s circadian incandescence.
The next thing you know it’s December,
Which only the calendar was expecting so soon,
Bringing a darkness that begets regret,
Not least for the profligacy of June.
The Yankee Poet 