June

Ghazal

’Tis the Friday night of summer, is early June.
Long after sunset, as twilight lingers, it’s clearly June.

Five broad-leaved stalks hide among the day lilies;
Lift a flap to witness Jack-in-the-Pulpit preaching June.

The maple syrup of March tastes distinct each day
Though it all tastes about the same come June.

Grieving the browning of lilacs – loss so soon-
She shifts her gaze to the peonies of blooming June.

Life is not fair, we shriek, and what’s more, some months
Are fairer than others, namely, fairest June.

Writing that book, sorting through stuff in the cellar,
And growing perfect tomatoes seem possible this very June.

Johnson wool jackets move from hooks in the sugarhouse
To the washing machine to the clothesline every June.

Soundscapes is a new word making me wonder if the
Hermit Thrush in this place serenaded the yesteryears of June.

Some years it seems, Audrey, your inner June unfurls
in line with the ferns of a Vermont June, thereby doubling June.

APC
6/9/24