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Poem: The Last Day in May

(Photo: Annie Spratt)

 

The Last Day in May

It is the last day in May
And the peonies and roses
Are in bloom, releasing
Heady fragrances
Into the warm, balmy breeze.

The dandelions have retreated
And wild violets, along with
Patches of clover,
Have taken their place.

Ants are scurrying about
In the sun, the shade,
And in and out of
Little mounds between
The concrete cracks,
In the tender blades of grass.

The woodpecker has returned
To his favorite apple tree,
And a bird’s nest,
Hidden deep within the branches
Of the pine tree, has been
Ransacked, once again, by the squirrels.
In the distance, birds chirp frantically.

 

Near the old wooden shed
Lies a mottled, green ball—
Nearly deflated—
And in the garden next door,
A shiny, yellow tricycle
Stands under the lilac bush.

The rhythm of the garden has returned,
While from afar
The roar of lawn mowers and blowers
Rips into the symphony
That is spring.

As I walk around the garden,
I notice that one of my rose bushes,
My most cherished one—has withered.
As I stoop to touch it, a dark-blue butterfly hovers above it,
Alights on it, and then flutters away.
The wind stirs, and I recall
All the years the roses brought such wonder and joy
To my love and me.

Both he and the rose bush
Are now memories
Of a different time,
And our own special world.

 

They say time heals,
Of that I do not know,
At least not yet.
But I certainly do know
That life goes on,
And with it, come new days and seasons.
Yet, no matter how new,
They are always sprinkled
With memories of that special,
Sweet world for two.


Sept. 25, 2017
Yerevan, Armenia

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