A Poem about June (at 6am in Winter)

There is magic in June

as I serpentine through tall, skinny pines

in leaves and grass all shades of green.

The air is like homemade simple syrup on the stove

white, light, sweet, sticky.

I breathe in and taste it coating my lips and tongue

a sheer glittering on my skin -

there is no separation between it and the atmosphere.

They are like one, I in it and it in me

and then, as purple gold dusk sets in,

you might see it -

electric speckles of light

showering the darkening sky

in pulses of another language

whether or not you are there.

But, be there

get in them

dance, sit

feel the magic in June.