A/N: This poem is somewhat strange and surreal. It started as a poem that was celebrating a month on the calender of my fantasy novels--Ashomle, which roughly corresponds to the beginning of our September. Somehow, the poem evolved into me personifying three consecutive months (Aflåen, Ashomle, and Llial'oh) and making it so that they have a weird love triangle of sorts. Don't ask me. My poems and stories take on lives of their own sometimes.


Now begins the month of Ashomle,
Darkening even the greenest leaves,
The air grows as sweet as it can be,
And birds there perch upon the eaves,
Though in the Wilds, monsters stir,
Comprised of claws and filthy fur,

And some, they go away to sleep,
While humans toil, always in unrest,
A bed is made in the farthest keep,
As each harvest becomes a contest,
In the forests, Nymphs have gazed,
Ever watching, though never fazed,

Presently, but it was not always so,
Those strange, strange cold eyes,
Remember when, not very long ago,
Their world had its own semi-demise,
When the forests slid far away,
The Nymph cities vanished one day,

Such for progress the price is paid,
That some places are thusly leveled,
And bodies that pile up, all arrayed,
Where civilizations become disheveled,
But no such sorrow is for Ashomle!
A month so sweet that she must be free,

Of anguish, melancholy, and pain,
But no, Ashomle is instead replete,
With the kiss of autumn's warm rain,
And a scent of cooking growing sweet,
Good food for all, and bitter red wine,
Feasts, and plenty, lovely and fine,

The blessed days never hold for long,
While dancers dance and toilers toil,
As Ashomle weaves her timeless song,
And exhales to breathe away turmoil,
She dances in her dark green dresses,
And around her flows her flower tresses,

A man there is, standing not so nearby,
Whose face is of shadows, made truly cold,
By those wind spectres that drift in the sky,
And as well by the passing of years untold,
He moves his dark eyes, looking, they see,
That dancing, spinning figure of Ashomle,

One kiss, he thinks, one magical thing,
To steal from Ashomle's pretty ripe lips,
And a new winter together they'll bring,
If Ashomle will stop moving her hips,
She looks: upon her, soon forms a smile,
As her eyes then shimmer, bright with guile,

Dance unfinished, Ashomle turns and flees,
Playful girl, she'll resist this man's iron cage,
As she bounds through myriad endless trees,
Keeping far from her mind the heated rage,
That rage which ever threatens to consume,
Which burns the buds to ashes ere they bloom,

It's not for her; that feeling is not right,
It is for summer, autumn cannot feebly cling,
To those passionate emotions, so bright,
A lingering feather of summer's white wing,
Yet Ashomle wants this, craving the fair
Face of summer, and her sunlight hair,

She stops running and meets in the glade,
Summer, whose smile is tight and pressed,
And fine, cut, perfect as a polished blade,
And Ashomle dreams of days spent caressed,
By those fine fingers, delicate nails and also,
Touched by the rivers and flowers that flow,

Because this is summer, and summer is warm,
Though plagued by infinite heat, and sighing,
While birds can sing and insects can swarm,
And summer's existence is now entirely relying,
Upon the touch that Ashomle could be supplying,

Ashomle hesitates, pressing her lips together,
Biting, as she thinks of some kind of name,
Summer smiles, gently offering her white feather,
Whispering, giving Ashomle a chance to claim,
What she thinks could be hers with just a hint,
Of rays of sunlight unbroken, and dreams unbent,

She comes, seeking for her tongue to,
Place a word upon this fragrant season,
"Aflåen," shy summer says, "here I grew,
Before you came, before I saw your reason,
But now you are here, sweet fair Ashomle,
And now your duty you'll do: replace me,"

It seems so familiar, Ashomle thinks then,
"It should," says Aflåen, "for every year,
I come, I wait, and I sit in the fen,
And there I do nothing until you appear,
From my hand the reins you next take,
And I, useless, recede within the lake,

It is thus, until he visits this place,
And takes your lips, and your little hands,
And speaks sweetly, calling you a disgrace,
As he shatters your bones and your bands,
And such ends the autumn, dear Ashomle,
Forever we're here, forever we'll be,

But each year anew the cycle begins,
We kiss, are kissed, then soon wane,
As he comes, as his shadows do descend,
And we follow: the eternal, unending train,
Each year we dance; you soon forget,
And I then feel the burning regret,

You are so beautiful, my Ashomle, yet,
Lord Llial'oh needs you, so to him go,
Together, you two may sometime beget,
Another month, time, ebb, and flow,
Ashomle, don't dally here, do not
For I am summer, alone in my rot,"

Hearing this, Ashomle fights tears,
These things she wished to recall,
Yet memories she had lost, and fears,
Rise within her, if only to fall,
Like shadows, that she had seen on
That man's face, so far from her gone,

"No tears, Ashomle, we are fine,"
Said Aflåen, smiling so very sadly,
"This cycle is of the gods divine,
And I hold your memories gladly,
So away now, and to Lord Llial'oh,
Your lips and your heart must go,"

Hearing this, Ashomle soon fades,
Not happy, no, but now content,
She runs again through the glades,
Filled now with her new intent,
She finds Llial'oh once more,
He waits beside some dark door,

"I knew you'd return," says he,
"Winter must come, things change,
And this forever can only be,
The way, the world's single range,
From winter to winter, the days,
Pass by in such splendid arrays,

But you, Ashomle, are autumn wild,
Wanton, feckless, entirely free,
You live and forget like a child,
That is you, fair and sweet Ashomle,
Not like the spring, but made
So that you are never obeyed,

Your punishment, then: no memory
So you may run all throughout,
Haunting the oldest oak tree,
Floating forever: within, without,
But now all you have been told,
The dance ripens, growing old,"

"Fine, then," says wild Ashomle,
"If I must, if it is for fate,
Then together we shall now be,"
They kiss as the hour grows late,
Watching, there is lone Aflåen,
Always silent in her sea of pain,

Ashomle into Llial'oh recedes,
One month to another, the days,
Follow the world's hungry needs,
Until the sun refuses to raise,
And there waits Aflåen, who misses,
Ashomle, and desires her kisses,