"My January"

How can I live this life, so dreary,

Without her, oh my January.

Once, she blowed a dandelion in the air,

To wish upon it she didn't dare.

She's a rose; but she'd wish she's not

Oh what little time she got.

Why do some withers so soon?

While others last, and bloom?

She'd wish she was a weed instead,

That will stand the whirling winds

The winds are the most unfair,

They'll sweep her and leave her bare.

Upon that dandelion, she'd like to make a wish,

But she's afraid she's already leashed,

To the withering petals of her soul,

She knew that wish wouldn't make her whole.