About the month of May,

How, why, and what they say

Could all be thrown away,

Well lost and well outlawed.

Old grass and twigs upclawed,

Boughs snapped off dead or sawed.

May, where I live, is hard,

A month to be on guard.

One night is warm and starred,

The next a swirl of cold

To rattle a household.

Then a day's forsythia-gold.

I do not ask a rush

Of bloom in every bush,

But the antique lilac fresh,

And one scrubby tree,

This May, with buds to be,

Flower the month for me,

Yellow the whole year,

Stain the day's green air,

The time lies not wholly bare,

Like a girl whimpering

In sleep near dawn, a thing

Wakening like spring.