Woke up this morning, bleary,

and unable to drag my bones out of bed,
decided to read a few poems,
a habit that has become my daily routine—
only to find dozens bidding farewell.
A frantic calendar check confirmed
that it is the last day of June.
 
Naturally, I went to ponder the body 
I have created, and in scanning the titles
found that I bared far more
than intended or, indeed, imagined
when I joined, a day late, quietly as I could,
my persona two initials and gratitude
for being here.
 
Since it is my fervent hope
that June’s attempts at education
have reached me, I offer this,
my summative assessment:
for someone who has likely never been
in love, I write an awful lot
of love poems—
but you all? You write them better.
 
In the spaces beneath, filling the gaps
between words
with encouragement and kindness,
you have given breath
to at least one rusty, hesitant voice.
On this, the last day of June,
I am still grateful to be here,
but this time, I will add— with you.