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What Day Is This?
May, our little name for the patch of timothy under cicada churr and jay scream. Is a month real as a pasture? When you come back from its new grass are your shoes darkened with dew? The dogwoods are in a funk. They' ve shredded their love letters and are dropping the pieces individually, falling out of love one word at a time. A cardinal pushes notes like tacks into the spongy blue board of today's sky. The map the dew made is fading out of the leather. I've got time on my hands, the smudge of the morning news. The cardinal is back, a red pock in the sweet gum. May's engines are overheating, the oil scorching, smoking blue. If you go out to the pond, May will be there too, getting loud, getting a little rough in its language.