May (mostly), the petticoat swirl of rising
pink meadow, petite showers, buds. I say:
rose, peony, phlox. And I say: petal-
shorn, plucked, blown until only the head
remains, one pale sticky oval crushed by u-
niverse so formidable it upgrades the dead
into blossoming…Old flower-face–you!
Cruel palette-eye! Where, where is your color?
I say: dearest, warmest, sugar-phlox fairy.
Dare I say: more. It’s May (mostly). And I am
showered and sweet beneath puckered
moon, stem right behind an ear. I am thigh-
deep in meadow and I must know: are you
dressed? Staunch, seasonal gloom cut? Dancy
blue-fires broken through? Show me.
The moon requires it. I confess: May. More.
I confess the kiss: a peony, phlox, a peony,
phlox, a peony, phlox,
—PB Rippey (circa 2002, when full moons were a nightly occurrence)