May blossoms everywhere
pink and bruised.
a full, bulbous heart.
torn,
trampled pulp of
fleshy petals on the sidewalk
bleeding into
the thick veins
of summer’s gleaming cobalt.
watering the day
with the
timbre of another lie.
night buzz and
stagnant warmth, hung
a secret laden
with humid pain
and his laugh.
vacant sorrow that
laid a stone with
belief.
May’s tale is
May’s shame.
Shine on bright little ones
In the garden of
The month of May.
You sweet little lillies
Of apples- crisp and green
That will ooze tangy sugar
to coat my tongue
a dream,
with or without cinnamon
in pies bearing the colour
of autumn and the
cheer of being together
again.
Until then, my visit beckons
the endless charm of
your white blossoms.
Smiling at me from sunshine,
preening on my hazy thoughts
this fleeting moment
as short as my time here.
Your bowls that will shrink to
form the fruits of my joy
In the garden of
The month of May.
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