May, the only bugs seems to be these buxom, busy, breeding bees who appear as charmed as we by the flowers on your dress. The evening breeze wears a perfume sweet enough to ask in the room, and warm enough I don't presume it's keeping secrets. It rustles each of these tree's fleece, each of these tall boys, green and obese, with their uncombed hair, humming peace and making me full within. The sun knows only to be serene, and hasn't learned to scream holes in the screen which lines this carriage clean and protects this fresh, moist skin of May

May, I know I'll lose you. You're only here one inch out of every year, and every time you disappear before I learn how to work your faucets. I wish I could stop these bland etudes and savor---blessed with an aptitude for full-figured gratitude---each second, each stitch on your corset, May