People stop to smell the flowers in gas masks.
I wonder who keeps the May-flowers at Prescott Park,
Wonder who keeps the Marigolds on Marcy Street.
I wonder at the May-flowers at Prescott Park,
Wonder how they stay and go year to year.
I wonder of Plymouth down the coast,
Wonder of May-flower landings to our land.
"A rock don't do much; don't grow." A kid said.
How many May-flowers drift into Prescott Park?
How many wind glide and set down seeds each new May?
I wonder how many minutes and myths make a Plymouth rock grow.
I wonder if the scent and sense of flowers in May can ring memories
Through blue masks, of the scented and sensible ways
Of Marigolds and May-flowers, in May, on Marcy Street.