In June fireflies flirt,
Thunderstorms brew on humid days.
But “then, if ever, come perfect days,”
In California, gloom all morning, sunny afternoons;
but here in Virginia you never know.
Carolina Wren babies hatch and grow and fly away,
all within the first part of June.
The creek boils with small fry
and jumping fish.
Winter-killed branches blow down,
burying point first in rain-soft soil.
Scorching days are unwelcome—too soon! too soon!
[come in July or August, if you must come at all.]
Children freed from school
Then put in camps, VBS, anywhere but underfoot.
O! the scents of June!
Rain-drenched earth—rich, dark, mysterious—
filled with promise and fertility.
Frivolous petunias, daisies standing tall,
Or blown flat, blooming.
[if daisies are “day’s eyes, what are pansies?]
Blackberries ripen red to black and bursting.
Lily trumpets: tigers, yellows, Easter whites…
Can you hear them blow?
Queen Anne’s Lace, yarrow, coneflowers.
Baby geese are grown, but still follow their parents
in a row;
this must help them form the V they later travel in,
imprinted on the tails of others.
Grass grows and Carol mows, tripping over hills
of rabbit, mole and vole. Sinking into holes,
loving God’s critters even while deploring
the ruin of my garden. But it is God’s garden