May

May

Larkspur, lilies, iris
kissed in licks
by rain, the taste of wet
hot breath and chains
of thunder, invisible whips
of wind that spank
the leaves and bend the limbs
and tips of trees in wild swirls,
the mating dance of heat.

Roosters crow, ducks strut and swagger,
sway their dance, span wings and shudder.
Cat mounts cat, yeeows and begs, slips, persists,
bites neck, and pegs.

Honeysuckle and blackberry blossoms
proliferate in tangles of sweetness and thorns,
an indomitable strangle of excess and beauty
steeped in delicate, drunken perfume:

a dewy infusion lusty yet innocent,
a beckoning spirit reckless, profuse

as May is lush, alive,
rolling wet in fertile beds
spiced plush with carpets of thyme.

The brewing storms crave release,
whirl darkening skies into thick green tea,
crash clouds in a mesh of vapor flesh
stagger lightning bolts in frenzied air,

the electric gush

of open skies
of tears and trembling,
broken groans and
gentle sighs.

--Diana Tigerlily