The new month of May

I haven't turned the page
to the new month of May
as if April like my love of you
too hard to let go
but there's a picture waiting
full glossy spread, I bet
to capture and enclose my heart
in the folds of memory.

And those folds are like a chain
interlocked heavy steel
and it winds around the will to be
unaffected by and indifferent to
the walk and talk, the silence,
the smiles, tears, touch, sight, smell,
of what was in the long ago
a really big event.

Big, oh, big, and how the small
denotes more than I think
when multiplied by months and years
of abstinence
and the page awaits my turning;
every day it waits
for me to squash the big, so big,
into a china thimble
meant merely as adornment.

The past adorns me
though none would deign to see
something beyond the real!