Poem for June
To begin with, you sing tiny sounds. The latch of a door
as I leave the house, tree limbs untwisting
to allow a full growth, dandelion seeds
touching down in their pockets
of earth like thumbprints.
A girl jumping rope afternoons now that
spring has softened the sidewalk. I watch you,
June, playing tag with the hills, hanging yellow
around their necks like a dare. You open my windows
to let in the breezes. Please,
just leave me out of it.
Voices across the street, charcoal smoke
and laughter—their cheeks
and the trees are flush with you, June, as if nothing
is wrong and regret makes no sense
when the kids can sleep late, when suggestions
are offered in this many colors.
This evening, swatting bees from my glass,
I will sip your approaching twilight.
I’ll adopt your agenda, and forgive
what I’d rather not.
Michael Landreth has lived in all four corners of the country, earning degrees from Auburn University and the University of Idaho. He is currently a PhD candidate in English at the University of Rhode Island. He has raised three kids who could take or leave his poetry.