May









May.  You are really too much for us. 

Too much celebration, too much sadness.  You host too many events.

Your garden needs attention daily.  Summer vacation insists on being planned before it is too late.

I'm trying to take in your beauty, yet not be late for where I am expected to be next.

I want to hike your woods, pick your dogwoods and azaleas, cook your asparagus.

I don't want you to bring the 14th around for the second time, nor do I have any clue how I intend to embrace turning 50.

And how, after I eat all the celebratory cakes, will I not embarrass myself fully in that bathing suit when the pool opens for the Memorial Day weekend?