The sky wears faded pearls today as the sun struggles to get out of bed,
Buried under blankets of clouds and a mild depression.
In a flurry of wings doves urge him on.
They cajole, they fret, they beg.
But he is in no hurry.
There is so much to do to clear the air still thick with moisture
And suspended dust from far away.
So many things clamor for a piece of him that he is already spent.
And there is the Med,
Patiently waiting for his attentions and getting so little
He almost feels guilty.
Perhaps with the passing of May eve, the horror show will stop,
Winter will leave, exorcised, chased to the south
By the fragrance of primroses and freesias,
By the tender green of new grass, new shoots in surrounding vineyards
And a lucky brin de muguet*…
Perhaps it will be the purest trill from the small bird
I can barely see singing his heart out
That will free Kore from hell and give winter a shove.
Perhaps the fog and haze will then lift and the sun
Will find his way to do what he is meant to do.
* On May 1st, the French buy and give Lily-of-the-valley sprigs for good luck. Good luck in sowing season brings abundant crops to harvest.