On June 1st all thirty calendar squares
mark time, some in dirge mode
shoulders sagging under times
and places, others dance
around exclamation points
knowing their appointments for hours
of infant coos and cuddles are confirmed.
Only few jubilate in hard-won blankness.

How different from summer 2020’s
question marks in each square—
the baby just a scared dare against fever
and weakened lungs. And no cicadas

to percuss afternoons, remind me my squares
might expire before their offspring fly again.