Riding the rustle of wind she comes downward past the meadow, the tread of her tiny feet all but a whisper in the grass. Her billowing skirts bayed out in back like the full-flown sails of a clipper ship, she moves as a shadow in sunlight, steady and without sound.
The trailing tails of the ribbon wrapped 'round her broad-brimmed dancing bonnet, flap like kitestrings in the breeze and flutter like newly-lined laundry applauding a sunny noon.
The vast, eternal wonder of the timeless skies enshrined within her liquid eyes betrays a youthful spirit, and her downcast countenance as she walks, a meekness nobly born. The errant breath of Spring brings out a charming blush of cheek as it brushes softly past her smooth, unblemished skin. Then the bright, beguiling smile that fills the day with gladness appears with sudden glory and at once she is before us, in the wake of swaying trees.
Wordless she wanders off into the garden, this maiden come down from the mountains beyond, and soft the caress from a delicate hand, each blossom unfolds in response to her touch. Then from her lips lightly parted on impulse, words freshly forming spring quickly to mind, so she speaks in an eloquent tongue undecipherable, pronouncing her blessing to each bloom and bower.
The fragrance of rain is about her, new, unassuming, natural; and she moves with a freshness of purpose both alluring and enlivening, while jonquils and juniper swing in her basket, with a spray of forsythia held to her breast.
Dwell with us always sweet dream-easy maiden. Heal all our heartaches and ease every pain. Snow-weary cares with each new oppression settle full-weight on our winter-worn souls, but these are illusions upon your arrival, and vanish like clouds celebrating their sky.
Unspoken nobility flows in your blood. Still you herald the reign of sovereign June. She, it seems, is the darling of all her subjects, and the sought-after prize of myriad suitors. June is all taffeta, crinoline and silk. Her gowns are of satin, and velvet her robes. Her blouse is fine linen with a jabot of lace, and a delicate veil conceals her face. But you May, honest and unevasive, reveal your charms to a welcoming world that holds you in revered esteem, clothed in your cotton and calico and unremitting grace.
June is the royal princess bride, but May is a lady-in-waiting. And there, concomitant to your queen, you preside in near obscurity, except to the rank-and-file following you have acquired from within our midst. These, whom you have walked among, pay homage to you now, and offering their obeisance, enthrone you in their hearts.
Wayne Kelley of East Dorset, Vt. is a regular contributor of seasonal essays and poetry.
Lady in Waiting