I post this poem every spring. From my chapbook Nightmares With Moons (Pudding House Press). Happy Stay-At-Home-Wednesday.

Full Flower Moon

May (mostly), the petticoat swirl of rising
pink meadow, petite showers, buds. I say:
rose, peony, phlox. And I say: petal-
shorn, plucked, blown until only the head
remains, 1 pale sticky oval crushed by u-
niverse so formidable it upgrades the dead
into blossoming. Old flower-face–you! Cruel
palette-eye! Where, where is your color?
I say: dearest, warmest, sugar-phlox fairy.
Dare I say: more. It’s May (mostly). I am
showered and sweet beneath puckered
moonlight, stem right behind an ear. Thigh-
deep in meadow, I must know: are you dressed?
Staunch, seasonal gloom cut? Dancy, gleamy
bluefires broken through? Show me. The moon
requires it. I confess: May. More. I confess
this kiss: a peony, phlox, a peony, phlox,
a peony, phlox, the rose.

PB Rippey