The Light Changes in May

The light changes in May
like a sudden promise of a soon
blinding shimmer, an imminent
haze of August’s end.
Dripping with wasted
longings the dampness of the
Earth relinquishes that gilded
hue, overnight, it seems.
I don’t remember when
the cool morning hung off the
windowsill, its sharpness ached
with a familiar wish for
the light to change.