This is the urge I get in May.
When the sun shines warm against my back, the cotton t-shirt heating like an electric blanket at just the right setting--the temperature seems destined to induce drowsiness and molasses-slowness. I want to lie in the sun and bask, sun myself and absorb the light and let my skin produce vitamin D. I want to let go and just be, forget what is around me, to observe but not participate.
May makes me think of solitude, of lying in the grass and reading and sleeping all day and waiting for grief to dissipate like the drops of condensation on a glass of iced tea. Letting the sun warm up my outsides while my insides are cool, like cucumber and mint and unsweet tea with its mouth-drying tannins.
The sun in May is bright, especially in the crisply springish air, enough humidity to make the air soft but not enough to blunt the sharp blades of light that pierce tree canopies to strobe against the sidewalk.
The urge to write is like a natural spring inside, welling up with a pastoral longing, to describe the way the air feels against my cheeks, my eyelids, the way the world has decided to be green again and is just stepping into the deeply shaded emeralds of summer foliage speckled still with spring's peridot buds.
I wax poetic in my mind and try to decide if this is good or bad, but finally decide that I can't help it, that spring is like a diving board, a Spring board, propelling my spirits upward and out, making me feel magnanimous and caring and in love with the world again.