June
This isn’t a poem about joy, but of what grows around it. A vining thing — glossy,
clandestine, fiddlehead-coy
and arnica-bright near forget-me-not blue. It bursts
vivid as the unconstrained sea — and brief as its bore tide. Like us
it opens beneath June’s
un-perforated sky — single-minded, vast, timeless as moments
in willow, birch. I kneel, overexposed in anemone-pale and
cranberry-pink —
and break with each blossom of Labrador tea.
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