May is bustin’ out
all over! Lilacs are going strong. Daffodils are being replaced by lilies. The
flowering quince has yielded to clematis. The apple trees are lacy and white as
spring brides, and droning with bees.
Last May I posted this poem,
‘Postmodern May,” and I hope it bears repeating. And I hope it gives you as
much fun, reading it, as it gave me, writing it.
Postmodern May
Ms. Nature shuns her
millennial personhood
Rejecting
minimalism, Spandex and faded denim
She flaunts her
opulence—full-breasted,
Riotously
flower-printed, budding, engorged.
Anorexia is not her style—
She’s plump and
full-hipped.
No cold-eyed stare, no
blackened lips—
She’s tarted up, red
and rosy
Showing her sex in every
blossom
Wanton, strumpet-colored,
perfumed
Like a slut; still wallowing
deep
In muddy ruts, she
powders herself
Lavishly in drifts of pollen.
She gives cellular
and laptop
A different twist, and her
blue
Larkspurs know
nothing of S or M.
She’s an old-fashioned kind
of a gal
Who’s abjured car
alarms for
The creaking creely-creely of hummingbirds,
And the chitter of
squirrels.
Nothing whited-out or
matte-finished
About her--she’s
shiny patent leather
Green, all gleam and glisten
and
Oils on the
surface. She’s given up
Briskness for slow-moving
Moist, voluptuous
airs,
A snip of Queen Anne’s Lace
in her bosom,
A deep moss-green
velvet stole about her trunk,
Her head scarved in
wind-stretched opalescence,
And her feet deep in
frog-studded standing pools.
She’s a vision; an
embarrassment of feminine charms,
Like some old
burlesque queen’s dream
Of youth and beauty. Hear her
humming
Her small songs in
the trees, her soft breath
Sighing in little, excited
gasps, exhaling
Essence of a million
blooms,
Sweet and rapturous. Don’t you wish
You could skip the
gym,
Stand up your skinny
girlfriend, and roll
With May on her
lush, tassled bosom of grasses?
She’s a phenomenon you can’t
deconstruct.
She’s wet with
juices. And she’s beckoning
You.
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