661-667: The Seven Days of May
i:
This May, unlike the last, the Spring moved in
to Summer with impatience. Probably
because last year the Spring failed to begin
until the Summer was easy to see.
But we enjoyed as much as we well could
the light May brought us, after April’s cloud.
We liked the way gloom framed the neighborhood,
but like, far better, freedom from its shroud.
This month we look for hikes ‘neath speckled Sun,
suppressed by tree leaves, just enough to spare
us burns, enough to feel some sweatdrops run
down backs that have been too long kept too fair.
We use the month of May to so prepare
for Summer’s giddy joy, and brighter air.
ii:
Night meets us, when it does, with a warm air
that cools but little, though we would be pleased
with any cold that evening has there,
with anything designed to make us eased.
So pleasant, though, to walk now in that night
that seems more lighted by its low moonlight
than other months that have had equal shine,
though through an air more frigid and more fine.
This warmth refracts those stars, almost, and makes
the moon grow hazy—or is that our sight?
Which is the truer? Is it warmth that takes
our clarity, or does it take the light?
Whatever its equations, I enjoy
whatever its arithmetics employ.
iii:
The bed now grows in temperature as well:
no more can cool sleeps be afforded you,
unless the wizards cast their cooling spell:
unless their AC magicks have been true.
If the electricians and repairmen
have done their art with care, you will be fine.
If not, what ancients knew, you’ll feel again:
on dry mouths and wet pillows you will dine.
Though I don’t mind, sometimes, to so recall
the past my bones remember, but I can’t—
of generations with a greater gall,
who were not, to harsh climes, the supplicant.
To lay in such a sleepless state is fair:
I find more than my own company there.
iv:
No sweeter morning can I think of than
the one when May is playing just outside.
She shrieks and laughs, and then she screams again
with what the Sun has graciously supplied.
You think you’ll see her out there, with her friends,
and find her, even her true personage:
her hair, the waving grasses, and the ends
of branches mingling with foliage.
Her laugh, the very wind that moves her hair,
her cry, the call of birds and bug swarm’s wings
who wake to play and call all others there,
to all the breathing, laughing, playing things.
As long as you look on her, you are, too,
as young as when the earth was new to you.
v:
The earth hums, thrums, and drums inside your ears
when you partake in May’s invitation.
Cicadas quell both ambience and fears
while buzzing their harmless infestation.
They sing and scream, audience to your play,
the cheering crowd that fills the stadium
that earth has laid for you to see today:
her own botanical gymnasium.
Your playground, while you stay, while you explore,
while you still are the child you once were,
is both museum and a foreign tour,
for new sights and exhibits are both sure.
You may go many days before you wake
to adulthood. Though one’s real, and one’s fake.
vi:
If you can stay a child a little more,
I’ll bring you back to something you enjoyed
more than any drink from the fridge’s store,
more than the juice mix your mother employed,
refreshment better than electrolytes,
more cooling than the iciest of cans,
a draught that all your sweaty ailments rights,
which energizes more than humid fans,
a drink you know—your memories recall
how many quaffs you swallowed from the well
it offered, even when you were quite small,
you drank more of this fount than time can tell:
the swill whose taste your tongue already knows
is that most giving spout: the garden hose!
vii - For Beverly Lewis, who we laid to rest a year ago, yesterday:
How cruel that May is not allowed to stay
as youthful as she wishes. When the moon
supplants her final Sun on her last day,
the next day is a much more mature June.
But how we will remember her! How fond
of all her rapture’s echoes we will be!
And when June’s even hotter nights abscond
our rest, what joy will join our reverie!
This month we have invested in her stock:
the wealth of wonder we have paid toward.
The rest of all the year we will still talk
of what her cheer’s returns can still afford.
And we will wait until she is reborn,
and when we will no longer need to mourn.