Jonquils, daffodils, deep golden tulips,
bloom in swatches, in waves, in clusters–blaze
against the growing grass of the broad lawn.

The forsythia bushes tell it’s time
to prune all the peace roses that will climb
on stretching canes for sixty days to rhyme
their hues each edged with pink and proudly raise
unfolding petals toward the southern sun.

I will not poison, will not even mow
the dandelions till they age and grey.
I’ll rake in grass seed that I scatter, sow
in bare dirt patches–praise the month of May.

– Steve Shoemaker, Urbana, IL, May 3, 2013