June, by Elaine Feinstein
Copyright Elaine Feinstein
| Hear Elaine Feinstein reading this poem | Streaming mp3 | mp3 file |
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| June |
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| Dried up
old cactus |
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yellowing in several limbs |
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| sitting
on my kitchen window |
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I'd given you up for dead |
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| but
you've done it again overnight |
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with a tasselled trumpet flower |
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| and a
monstrous blare of red! |
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So it's June, June again, hot
sun |
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| birdsong
and dry air; |
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we remember the desert |
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| and the
cities where grass is rare. |
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Here by the willow-green river |
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| we lie
awake in the terrace |
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because it's June, June again; |
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| nobody
wants to sleep |
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when we can rise through the
beech trees |
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| unknown
and unpoliced |
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unprotected veterans |
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| abandoning
our chores |
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to sail out this month in
nightgowns |
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| as red
and bold as yours; |
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because it's June, June again. |
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| Morning
will bring birdsong |
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but we've learnt on our bodies |
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| how each
Summer day is won |
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from soil, the old clay soil |
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and that long, cold kingdom. |
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