May
Showers gag the trees,
May shuttles pleats in the sky.
There are towel-drying winds.
Parks grow soggy with small dogs;
May is an old man riding a bike backwards.
It is oil for the broken engine in the barn.
Wetness folds this way and that.
We see nestlings in reservoirs of dew.
Bubbles pop in puddles,
could it be new Life?
Could it be May, hands in its pockets
like a small boy, whistling and waiting
for something green
and tufted to happen?
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment