MAY

Whitebeams, lofty and tranquil against
the hazy blue, hold the wind.
Magnolias, weary of soughing, now rest
awhile, a pause effect in the
glissade of their diffuse pink stained glass
glow upon the glaucous grass.

Dappled chartreuse seas sighing in the 

distance pine for fallen flowers

that tinted them with translucent violet

shadows. I am a fellow mourner,

blessed verdure, drowned in periwinkle  

showers, flurries of flamelets

at my feet, frozen blossoms in my heart.

Could one know the lornness of glacial

deserts in this palisade of

Summer's green-gold light? Here, where

roses climb into my lap and

larkspurs envelop my knees; where the

air tastes of honeysuckle and

Rowans and Hawthorns guard my sleep?

Pain does not dissolve in the noonday

sun upon fields aflame with May's jewels.

It is my own poison tree,

my master and mentor, distilling darkness 

from beauty and sustenance

from wounds that rent my soul. Smiles and 

words are but an overlay of scented

petals upon a field of scars.

© 2015 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image source: www.liveinternet.ru

Artist: Alfred de Breanski