The sounds of May,
More eagerly birds frolic;
Even louder than days preceding.
Bouquets of carnations,
Deep reds, pinks, whites;
Petal by petal aligned,
To patiently queued buyers.
The taste of a toast,
Of sparkling wine from,
Vineyards vast and distant;
No harried haste to savor.
Furls of hemlines,
A folk tradition ebbs;
The whirligig of paper confetti.
More than twenty blackbirds,
Trip lightly through the grass,
Seeking out micro food;
Only a grackle's beak will tweak.
Beginning May, May day;
Of yester years echoes,
In procession labour,
Silent wreaths adorn their struggle.
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