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.

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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.