The Greening of the World
Jan 17, 2021
Green May has jumped out at me
As it always does from the fog
The month of ghosts that haunt me
Till I join their ranks.
I was born in May —
To a man 40 years old to the day
A birthday gift, he always said,
His blue eyes never confirmed the words.
Except for once:
When leaving his house
I glanced back and caught him looking
With pools of longing.
He is dead now.
Inconsequential snippet of May memory.
Spliced in amidst frames of disapproval
This man with whom I share the greening of the world.