May Day

Yeah, it’s seventy degrees and
snowing in my part of the yard

so don’t look now there’s
a worm that didn’t quite make

it back to the loam, but flowing
fringes of procreation still

shed off as light as ribbons
twining lilac haze with a dance

toward sweet interludes inside
dawn’s cabana drenched

in wet morning song full
of pollen and propagation

and progeny and purity and
proliferation and seed.


6 thoughts on “May Day

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