An Eve in May
deleted an unforeseen deficit
we all can relate to–
the kind brought by endless, stringed-together, mundane days.
The unexpected nourishment she bore to me–wholistically–was more than sufficient.
April showers might bring May flowers,
what good is rain w/o colors to bloom?
My privacy of her confiding was my shower,
but her generated, flowing spring is how she repaid me
by rinsing the stagnancy–
the one who wished my primal and grounded humanity would never resume.
But, it's too late; I'm hydrated–
saved from common doom.
Her gilded curls paint me elated
the way sunflowers grant a Texas field the status of "amber-plated."
This May's moon blossom makes every other pedal jealous
because their own suppleness could never be as zealous
and satisfying as her skin, effortlessly, is
when caressing and addressing every aspect of me.
She's Spring's rain smell; she's invigorating.
May is the month for officially commemorating her curves–
the kind of hairpin turns requiring the most warranted kind of caution
when going up and down them.
For, the whole point is for her navigator to wind and swerve;
it's those kinds of journeys whose treasure in the most awesome.
To the Eve of that May…
your flora's Spring fragrance still lingers
in all my linens in every kind of way
one could never find it pleasant.
Just so you know, April days will boldly continue to convey
why even the raindrops have to pay homage to your smile of the rays.
Joy is anyone and Mother Nature, unapologetically, getting to know one another with lips and fingers.