It's May

It's May. It comes with sun and azure sky.
Then suddenly the barograph descends.
The golden warm (with even three days dry)
and all that promised summer weather ends.
With temperatures of six degrees and less
the only constant is the stretching day.
There's fresh snow on the hills. It's all a mess.
A marten comes now on our lawn to play
just before the fall of each short night.
So much for any chickens one might want,
unless they are a breed that's grown to fight,
they won't survive this killer on their scent.
Still May's poor weather must get better soon.
It might, for after all next month is June.

<<Return to poems