By Shyla George
We have targets to meet and promises to keep:
March is our nightmare.
For June I have yet to find an apt metaphor.
We were cows fastened to a tree with the shortest rope.
In September, we struggle like an umbrella
that refuses to close on a busy bus in the city.
In December we would long to flee to a jungle.
Yet
after coming a full circle,
we yearn for
next
quarter
end.