To The House Of May

© 2001, Carl Thomas Gladstone

As the world rolls toward new days,
crushes winters into pasts,
gales away the darkening clouds,
and calls for those asleep to wake
I will go softly to the house of May.

And with each life emerging from the soil,
yellow-green and fragile bodied things
growing into sturdy dark-hued browns,
you will find me stretching with the day
and walking ‘round this house of May.

I’ll gather bits of God from drips of water
off the leafy fonts, watch for ripples
spreading from my soggy steps along the way,
and hope to see you in this house of May.

You with wetted hair, stepping
barefoot through squish of mud,
the brush of ferns against your knee,
and I without a word to say
will share the wonder of this house of May.

This is life of sky-bound tree
planted in the steady soil,
clouds of cool and rays of warm,
a million leaves that make one shade
together in this house of May.

So when the world rolls toward new days,
and crushes winters into pasts,
remember how we walked along,
on these paths, these green-grown ways,
together with God in this house of May.