Fifth from the very first and hidden somewhere between the rest,
she is conceived by intercourse between the start and the end.
May pulls the sun to a halt and places the rain at its best,
Letting the cats and dogs loose for the clouds to expend.
She makes the colors of summer time give way for the collard-green of May’s wet conquest,
And gives the dried wells a taste of flow from the spring’s bend.
Now the stars would shine in the naked company of the night moon,
Like the young Starks at the brittle battle of winterfell.
Just as the eyes of the red wedding, the sky will blue at noon,
and will ungrieve like a sorcerer that has cast a spell.
When the winds blow and the dusty secrets of April is shewn,
we then know that the lips of the season surely does kiss and tell.
The tears from the sky finally bleaches the chocolate melanin of the expectant grounds,
and quenches the thirst beneath the hunger that pricks the land in the face.
The farmers can now harvest their cornbread this time around,
And then we would remember that the weather-democracy is May’s.