Every shower in the fourth month,
April that is,
Leaves a trail of something beginning behind.

Every flower in the fifth month,
May that is,
Folds upon the path of itself behind the beginning.

It is the first cycle heard of that is not so vicious,
Rather a fictitious nursery rhyme to end the pain of dark rain and times.
From month to month and year to year,
April showers bring May flowers.

But what does the promise of may flowers carry?

May flowers carry the promise of the sixth month,
June that is,
That unwinds the connections felt upon walking that folding trail.

June,
That will always be the month that I lost you.