Our May is milestones moving, moving so swiftly, like the balsam root, out so bright, her fields upon marvelous fields, yellow shine and deep brown eyes and then, just like that, the leaves fall back to the earth, stems cold and vague like time.
In May you turned five, the wheels on your bike so fast down the gravel path, all you really want is to be with us but we party anyway.
In May we build a fire and pitch a tent, the children could do this for hours, the sticks and marshmallows, painted rocks and giant boulders. I love the way the fire still burns in morning.
In May your dad still looks straight ahead, flags are lowered for his time in the war and he sucks on a popsicle, the sugar drips down his face like sticky tears.
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