. . . .

the

maylings,

the

saplings,

the

godlings

and

lovelings,

the

springlings,

the

seedlings

love

the

spring.

The

robins,

the

dewing,

the

berries,

the

cooing,

the

children

of

may . . .

© "glo-po"
2001

---

(Cheery spring lines equate to sadness. The marvelous, youthful creations and promises of spring lead to heaviness of summer to you-know-what: winter extinction ....)

The sires of May
Chirp on the branches
And croak by the laking.
Awake for a sign
From the woodbine and grasses.

The sires of May
Mating and waiting
Hiding and throbbing
Creating the springing.

The maylings, the godlings,
the saplings and lovelings,
the seedlings love the spring.

The robins, the dewing,
the berries, the cooing,
The children of May.

All born in May are made for love
Adored by the junebugs
with Juno-esque passion.

Adore us, O Taurus,
whatever the fashion
For June is a desperate month.

The melons are bursting
The hot sun a-thirsting
The trees too heavy with child.

The berries are stolen.
The tadpoles are swollen,
The bird nests littered with shell.

"I.U.C.D!" the robins are calling.
The daffodil's going astray!
Nature's thighs closing,
The Lippes Loop pushing its way.

Less blue now, less green.
The robins less red:
The womb curtain
Falls on the play.