May Procession We sail on lace feathered arms into the glare of May sunlight, shattering the air with a chorus of our nuns’ saintly, sweeping names. They brush us into line. We descend the grand slope of cathedral stairs sparkling with the ice melt of a nearly forgotten winter, and fly to the hill over the river where we hover above the blare of the sin-filled world. A May Procession, all blossom and yellow- beaked, orange-tinged, pure black and white, burning hawthorn, and all of us bloom and sway and tip toward a fall from the slick bank into the whirling water below.
Mary Beth Hines writes from her home in Massachusetts following a career as a project manager. Her work appears in journals such as Crab Orchard Review, Orchards Poetry Journal, The Blue Nib, The Lake, Snakeskin, and The Road Not Taken among many others. She is working on her first poetry collection.