May gathers the flowers but never brings them.

That is for the earlier months,

for the seamlessly harmonized blend of wool and chambray raining down from a slick balcony in the sky, beyond the clouds, beyond material.

May it rain down whenever I ask it to,

may summer not wring the poet daffodils out dry,

for I am not yet ready for them to mark my old books and pages.

If you ever find I am, tell me about the unquenchable thirst to crack the flower pistils beneath your finger and rub dust from it,

tell me about your desire to reduce it to dust because it is only dust /

I promise I will not judge you.

I wish, I wish, I wish,

and I can no longer wish and I can no longer stop.

I can say I am yearning and forming ideas that have changed the clock of my mind.

•••

Now I still imagine that we jump upon the clouds when we want them to pour,

even with the greater chance we may fall off the world.

May seems to dissolve the clouds but there are still ashes raining from the sky,

and there is a greater chance that we would be safer up there than down here;

there are two different versions of me throwing the blowing dust into the air, one flies and one drops.

There is a great chance of flying,

may it happen.

May, please make the world slow down or at least stop, please make it happen.

•

I am asking like a child who wishes,

but what child does not wish?

May I create out of what I gather,

poetry out of words that have not been left to rot,

music out of strings that have been newly sown,

art out of oiled paint prepared by another hand.

May gathers the flowers but can never bring itself to understand.