How odd to think we'll see seventy Junes;
Some more, some less, that only a fool would
Dare squander thirty endless afternoons
And not be lost at sea or winding woods.
When summer's effervescent breath beckons
And hazy lights adorn the crowded pier,
Reflecting fuchsia waves that every second
Deliver bottled message souvenirs.
A month with wild subtleties and wonder,
Its beauty often hid beneath a mask;
Without the telltale fireworks and thunder
All too often evades our dazzled grasp.
So now we wait another dozen moons
To feel the fleeting lover that is June.
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