barely pink clouds at dawn 
daisies smiling where you didn’t plant them 
and phoebes’ love calls on endless loop.  

June is zesty handfuls of currants 
and the chatter-banter of nesting orioles 
echoing over clover’s tatted tapestry.  

June is yarrow’s ancient mysteries 
intricate trellis-galaxies of clematis 
and elderberries reaching from creek to sun. 

June is sheets and pillowcases
wind-waving as sun journeys past
and a wildflower bouquet  

sacred in my grandson’s grasp.
Time’s wings are what I clutch
willing their flight to cease.