May First

The first blush of dawn creeping into the old farm house yearly found four bed tousled kids easing down the stairs and slowly lifting the door latch. Stockinged feet slipped into cold clammy rubber boots before clumping silently through wet pastures and into the wood. Searching for and picking the abundance of wild flowers poking through the underbrush and along the creek. We’d pick as much as our arms could hold then lay them on the neighbor’s porch and our front porch, ringing the door bell then quickly hiding, listening for the exclamations of wonder.




The early morning May ritual was passed down to my kids. When they were little and we lived in the city, they’d scope out the best lilacs and camilla bushes for days before the event so they could immediately hone in on bushes that wouldn’t suffer lack or indignity.






The cycle has turned and it’s my turn again to flit out of bed at daybreak and ramble through the grasses and woods. Some years it’s not so easy to leap from bed and steal out of the house before the day’s demands rush in. Still, it’s simply not May without some token of the wonder of spring brought in to grace our home.