It is the eighth of May

What year does not matter.

The sun is out, the air is fresh

The squirrels are full of chatter.


They rush from branch to limb

chasing each other like mad.

I always expect at least one to fall,

They don’t. That makes me glad.


The chickadees and robins

are busy, busy nesting,

and chirping, and scolding, and holding forth.

They have no time for resting.


The garden fills with bright, new green.

Baby shoots appearing.

Peonies, poppies, iris, too,

Every sprout endearing.


The glory of the Maytime Spring

can never quite erase

the loss of Ruth so long ago.

I miss and miss her face.


I miss her laugh, the things she’d say

that cut you to the core.

But for every snide, sarcastic quip,

there was so much to adore.


She died too young, but did her best

to make it through each day,

Until she actually gave up the ghost

that sunny ninth of May.


I choose to celebrate the eighth,

when she was with us still,

Loving her boys, giving her all,

dying against her will.


So, here’s to you! My little sis.

I know you’d have something to say

’bout me moping around, crying about you

when I’m faced with a beautiful day.


So, I’ll water the plants, and sing something silly

and dance around the deck,

If you will  send down some small, simple sign

That you’re still around, by heck!


I know you are!  😉


rJo Herman 5/8/2020







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