The Days of May
The days of May were wrapped around my finger.
Love settled in as though it meant to stay,
Exacting joy as if pressed through a wringer.
The days of May.
In June and July love went a bit astray,
Living as a strolling minstrel singer.
Gone was the sweet contentment of our May.
Then as the cold winter days would linger
Love sought the warmth of that sweet early day
Before it tried that reckless time as swinger.
The days of May.
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2013
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