Marchiness In May Poem by Sonny Rainshine

Audacious, impertinent:
this Marchiness in May.
The seasons seem to have bumbled,
bungled into anarchy,
lost their way, like migrating birds
whose inner compass
has dislodged and whirrs
futilely in the air,
no longer pointing home.

It is as though winter and summer
reject their separateness, their polarity
and have vowed to amalgamate,
so we’ll no longer need twelve
names for the markings of the moon.

May, the merry month,
the mighty month, the harbinger
of jeweled summer nights
and the gilded dawns of June,
what must we do,
what burnt offerings,
what incantations,
what penance must we serve
to break the spell,
and remove today, this unsettling
Marchiness in May?