Poem for May

The air feels heavy...
slightly dewey; and
the sky is puffy-faced -
white, sticky and sickly
like an overstuffed,
sugar-laden child.

Where is my sunshine?
My solid, reassuring
warm air scented with
sweet flowers? Where
is my answer, my sureness,
my salvation?

Expectation is always
dangerous; sort of like
a squatting imp with fat
cheeks and hairy legs,
waiting to yank the floor
away so you fall, hitting hard.

You were supposed to
rescue me, May: A soft landing
and new promise, gently drifting
like festival music across
my face, whispering triumph.

The imp smirks,
gets ready to pull...