May

May is predictable.



I was born at the end.



April finds its way

to the basement 



The wide pine

inching to plumb

aching back rain

and relieving shy sun



Laundry.



Another ring in the maple

for future fools

to count our history.



Uncovering shoots

have their way

penetrating aged

wet leaves


Flower to Blue

No more saint-talk

No more varnishing hymns


By June the bug-sluts of May

will plan parenthood

and uncle tom’s fly swatter 

batteries are charged

All over again.