May Day
always
was,
in every way,
bright and cheerful and
colored with blossoms
from our yard.
Roses.
Lilacs.
Dogwoods.
Camellias
Kornblumen.
Straw Flowers.
Daisies.
Periwinkle.
Rosemary.
Lavender.
Camomille.
Sage.
Mint.
Grape Hyacinths.
Sometimes even late tulips
and plum blossoms.
Full bouquets,
ding-dong-ditched
on doorsteps
for the neighborhood,
for children’s teachers
— piano, dance, acting, spiritual
and intellectual —
and scholastic staff.
Surprises
for them
and us.
Messages
of love
and remembrance
and appreciation.
But children grow up
and teachers grow old
and people move away
and on,
and invitations
for the next generation
are forgotten,
and friendships
are dissolved
or wither
and die
from lack of care
or abuse.
This year,
our last here,
blossoms are few.
There is a cold,
constant rain,
and even if there were flowers,
there would be few to
grant bouquets to.
Sorrow permeates
this day,
our last May Day
here in this
botanical wonderland,
where everything grows
and blooms
and thrives
except cacti
and prickly pear.
Ironic that,
as our time here
dies,
Spring is so slow
to arrive.
I would take a photo
of the late dogwood blossoms
and the just-emerging,
faintly-scented lilacs,
but my battery
just died.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 
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