To May

On a rainy day
April became May
and I
danced the gloom away
as clouds left the gray
spring sky
and left me to stray
among blooms that lay
nearby.

A young butterfly
came fluttering by
my nose
and I wondered why
she wasn't more shy
like those
who dart far and high
away from from my eye.
Who knows?

But that's how it goes
in spring's beauty shows
each day
an urge to compose
a rhyme or some prose
a way
to praise a new rose
or weed, I suppose
in May.