Twelve Months of May

By Avery Boltwood

This month is a May of a May, abloom

with flowering whimsies where men should have been,

except for my seeing them,

daily may-being them,

wilting their skins into faux rosy fields,

so I, the naked self-pity of April,

may hope! understanding the flowers I grow—

may doubt! standing under the gathering clouds—

may chance my undoing by whimsical thorns:

a chance of a chance,

a May of a May.