May
May slides through winter roots.
It comes like a wet dog to your table,
stays to dry itself, turns into a canary.
It is an old man riding a bike backwards,
into greening rainbows.
May dangles on a washing-line,
of billowing clouds.
May is oil
for the broken engine in the barn;
the motor that has not worked all winter,
but now you hear it
purring softly in your dreams.
May is a new whisker on an old mouse,
a church for rogue hoot owls,
it grows sunlight
on the sleek backs of river otters,
then comes to basks on your porch.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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