Lilacs

I wear the scent of hawthorn in the air, and sit beneath a sky that's turning fair.

I'm not the start, but not the end, I'm late spring's gentle, blooming friend.

My month is named for Maia, goddess bright, where hawthorn blooms and bees take flight, yet I arrive without the first day's light.

Take the number of legs on a spider, then count that many days in my month, as a rider.

My year is written in a future tune: two thousand… then add twenty, add five, make it complete, and you'll find the time my name repeats.

So tell me, what moment do I claim? A calendar whisper, a hidden name.