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 roofless church for hoot owls,
it grows sunlight
on the sleek backs of river otters,
then comes to basks on your porch.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2025
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment