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Hawthorn flowers now, so that May's soft lip deep-ends to a full kiss. Dandelion seeds, apple blossom petals from attending bees, slip and drift or litter from the arm of a breeze flung wide in pirouette danced to lulling song; though yet there is plenty left: last buds to open, last yellow sun-brushes to globe and button, baldness feathered with a few stay-at-home.
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But it's that May sweetness pervades today, dizzies all sense with the deep underlay wrings the very fundament of pleasure (petal landing on these words, blackbird flourish over) mind can no longer dance, so drunk the measure but with honeyed growl sinks down, a lover.
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................
Hawthorn is also called May.
The poem is not quite a sonnet, written not quite in any sonnet rhyme scheme, and not in iambic (di-Da) pentameter.
(Wattpad ought to get their dictionary act together. There are often perfectly sound words these poems employ not in their paltry spell-checker, 'fundament' - an underlying ground, theory or principle [basically something fundamental] being today's.)
