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In May, the fields of sage turned white-and fireflies flashed their little light.
The scent of elder filled the air and not a single tree was bare-
The winter wheat was spun to gold and sunshine chased away the cold.
The “Quiet Garden” caused much ado, for roses bloomed in every hue-
The “Bob White” sang his name in May-and little rabbits came out to play.
May is too kind to leave us stranded, and does not leave us empty-handed-
Instead, May gave us, in good measure, a host of things to praise and treasure.
The smell of clover, I’ll remember, one chilly night in late September.
When January comes with ice and snow, I’ll think of May, when the iris grow.