I Woke In May

I woke in May,
From a dream-like state and winter grey.
Took down crepes and buntings black
To pack them carefully away.
No doubt they’ll hang for me one day.

And here is May,
To usher this vague time along.
Sunshine knocks at windowpanes
And newborn flowers line the lanes.
Birds call out life’s sweet song.

I have known many Mays
Though dates and years slip my mind,
I recall one of every kind;
A newborn baby at half a year,
The first spring we were living here.

Mary’s birthday was in May.
Now no other claims that month
That I know of, anyway.
Too many to remember, and scattered, in the clan.
Too many for one old and scattered man.

I’m not sure how I got to May
This year, I must say.
January is a blur.
I’m certain February occurred.
Of March and April, I can’t speak a word.

The ticking clock I once vowed to destroy
Is now the tool at my employ.
For all the modern medical arts,
Drugs and x-rays, treatments and charts,
None claim the power to heal broken hearts.

Life imposes tariffs on the soul and on the mind,
When least expected or ready yet,
With no regard for season, rhyme or reason.
Each year the tax rate rises
As my age does, I regret.

But May! O! May!
What new blooms have you today?
Taxes paid and winter past,
Lilac perfumes fill the heart,
To life, again, the pendulum swings,
As the greening cottonwoods sway.

Take care and keep in touch.

Paz

2 thoughts on “I Woke In May

  1. rabbitpatchdiary.com

    love your prose. Even in grief-you find beauty. When my husband died, I wrote really for days-pouring my soul out, grief anger, shock, fear-everything! Then I burned it. A ceremony of sorts and I had never dreamed to do so. I suppose I could have buried it. I think of you on your path back. The path may seem barren, but you are growing . (Oh! how I hated, when folks told me that!) x Michele

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply
    1. Pazlo Post author

      The act of composition forces my ever-whirring mind to slow to the speed of the pen.
      This time warp allows me to see and focus on thoughts, which otherwise streak past like the blurry motion of a speeding commuter train.
      Composition is the station and platform from which I can read the placards on the locomotives, and correlate them to the great galactic schedule on the wall.
      Indeed, beyond growing, I have come to realize how, if anyone, I am positioned squarely for such life-changing events as those currently being navigated. I have prepared for many decades a heart and spirit that look to see beyond the occasional storms, grounded in the celestial and terrestrial. At once embracing the limitless cosmos and holding the delicate sparrow in my hand. Such things are the farthest from transitory, and will carry me home.

      All my best,

      Scott

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      Reply

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