A Month Laments Its Failure

twelve of me,
times twenty-two
have yielded such
a rotten fruit.
tis enough summers,
others say,
for one to ripen
pleasantly.
but this one's bitter,
rough in places.
soft and damaged.
many faces
of our failure,
look back neigh.
when at our boy,
we turn an eye.
it looks up
as if to say,
"face the compost;
toss away."