Outside My Window V Poem by Frank Avon

May is fleeting:
it spreads its colors -
red, pink, orange,
yellow, purple, blue -
and darkens its greens.

My computer screen before me
is only words, words, words,
but the bay window,
to my back, to my side,
in front of my eyes

offers me May:
the delicate pink of spirea,
the crimson of Mister Lincoln,
the flesh pink of New Dawn,
the fresh blend of Joseph's Coat,

and all the greens
that claim the landscape,
no longer the fresh, fragile
of spring, not April any more,
becoming the fecundity of June,

the tiny redbud leaves
now grown broad as fans,
the wisteria vines grasping,
clasping, making their demands,
the hibiscus adolescent

flirting with his future,
to emerge giant blossoms,
the young spruce, hirsute,
growing taller, tawnier
by the day, spreading,

lily fronds, young sunflowers,
dusty miller, polka dots,
grass and weeds invading
the flower beds, the rosebed -
determined to succeed.

Maia is a virgin
waiting not to be,
seeking, reaching,
seducing Zeus,
producing her sly Hermes.