Only June

by Kira Velella, Long Beach, NY

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It’s only June,

only a word, a name, a season

but it evokes a feeling.

After the rain today I went outside,

and the whole place was wild and teeming.

Only June can cast this spell—

it’s a specific time, it’s an entire world.

I carry it year-round in my yellow and white

honeysuckle heart.

If we speak in December and I seem half there,

know that part of me is plucking mulberries

from a just-ripe tree,

hanging over a path hardly hidden

from voyeuristic backyard barbecuers,

but I don’t have room to care;

I delight.

It’s only June, but I could cry.

I worry. I worry unendingly.

Am I present enough, am I taking it all in?

Will I run out of time?

I’m practically tripping over treasures

provided by this season,

studded as it is with newborn fireflies,

their light burning my squinting night-eyes.

I catch a breath that picks up the scent

of freshly crushed-grass heaven,

summer’s start.

And relieved, I remember

it’s only June.