In May began stringing things together
linked looping moments of “wow”
long enough for draping.
No single story lorded over us
no snap captured us
no shot caught us
yet the tape rolled on.
The soft-eyed librarians of May
stacking propositions
and tidily pulling out blocks of support;
weaving through the swaying risks of articulation.
Working backwards one may find
we had been knotting frames together
even previous to the unfurling of magnolia buds,
spotting seams in the montage
in a lull of feeling.
Thinking: “It’s cold out here,”
like these Junes-to-come.
Wondering: Will there be flowers? Days of adventure when the seasons change?
And will I carry my sleeping daughter to the front door?
Evelyn C. McLean 