Seasonal (sections)

[billy]

after doing some research, a cleave is two or more poem that can each be read separately or as one. i've yet to see tow of three separate forms that read separately or as one. so this bugger could be a first

i'd say make it correct for the combined poem have you thought about leaving a space between each poem? i'll try and create an example of what i mean. i'll be back

Ok I probably need to explain what I'm about here.
I have an experimental project I'm working on, that might (or might not) be a cleave poem. You can find the original thread in the Haiku section.

I've come to the point where I would like some critique and to start the editing process...Reguardless of what is considered correct for cleave poetry or not, I'm of the opinion that each individual poem should be correct to form and stand in it's own right. So I decided to present them individually first in the mild section, (before we decide there is anything worth putting up for serious critique!). This is the first of three seperate poems that combined make up a fouth poem. I'm more than happy for any level of critique but obviously the changes will need to work with the final combined effort.
Whilst working on this my biggest question been the punctuation. Do I make this correct for the combined poem?...because I don't think I'm clever enough to make the individual poems correct and then have the combined poem flow unchanged.
(There are a few changes made to this edit from the original as posted in the Haiku thread, but for the purposes of this post i'm looking to find out if this poem works or not).

The Luc bat element. of SEASONAL

March sighing for her love.
Of late, urgent opportunist,
now loves’ unprejudiced,
April, gained through pained mist. Full of
bourgeoning subterfuge,
springs the heavy deluge. Doe eyed,
May leaves the safe refuge,
rough and rude the buds are shaken!
Taken. Lust awakened.
June all too soon, overtaken,
sowing a veil of tears.
Worn out by drought filled fears, played out.
July blue, high, dry, clear,
subterranean streams,
slip-streamed by a moon beam.
Ascending slender dreams of mist,
the final fling revealed.
Pensive August appeals. Concealed,
September – reluctant. Congealed,
bleeding beauty now takes the field,
a fate caressed and sealed. Stone-ground,
October refused to yield. Pierced lamb,
a nest bound swallow. Last, not yet
fully fledged, held in debt.
November plays roulette. Focussed
for the final dozen.
The broken bridge. Orphan, sylvan
leaves December corban.
The simple things that mean so much,
dependant on love’s touch.
January will need a crutch.
With darkened countenance,
now searching luminance; best guess,
found in pre-eminence.
the growing grace, a fitted glove.
February’s white dove.