April was "the cruelest month"
T. S. Eliot had his sway, being
Right only goes so far and now
May comes in teasing, blowing 
Hot and cold like a lady in waiting
Flowers, famously made hers
By the showers of anticipation
From the clouds of the month
Before sit unsure of themselves
In beds strewn around tree trunks
Cast too early for their colorful
Debuts, appearing papery and 
Transparent in the iffy sunshine
Of overcast May days, seeking
Succor from the chill winds, not
Quite secure in their nesting 
Places. Chaucer spoke of the
Renewal that is spring. I say it's 
A process and a time of year.