Every month has a lovely fragrance.
The intoxication of roses define my month of May,
And the majestic beauty that sang my sins away.
As the years pass, the passion in my mighty heart clings, but holds true.
I was never quite a poet, until that first time she whispered to me.
Until then, just a boy with a journal of lost words.
The sunny days seemed endless, and the rainy ones spent in bed.
Those romantic escapades are gone forever, and today, we are merely strangers in the night
My days were filled with hiking trails and exploration of the mountains, while
My nights were spent lazily sprawled on the bed, listening to her sing along to piano and strings
The trails, now somehow lonely, no longer bring glimpses of her eyes staring into me, as the sun sets behind the Blue Ridge.
So today, as age creeps, grabs, and chokes me by the throat,
I return poetically back to my first Mountain May and smile.
She was an angel if I could ever be allowed to define the term.
She was a reason to live, thrive, and never surrender.
She was a reason to become the poet, explorer, and storyteller of me
She was my month of May, and I would never replace her
I instead think back, and breathe in the scent