There’s something about June

“Here in Florida the seasons move in and out like nuns in soft clothing, making no rustle in their passing…For the seasons…are marked, not by calendar, but by fruits and flowers and birds.”  — Marjorie Kennan Rawlings

June, in some ways, is a new beginning. Not unlike this blog! Speaking as a teacher, it heralds in a season of rest and renewal. Early morning alarms and weekly schedules become a thing of the past…at least for a while, at least for me.

I love the winding down of June, the slowed rhythm around me. The smell of the earth after a rain. The broad lacy shadows of the oak trees in the moonlight. Jasmine scented nights that have given way to the season of magnolia, those heady, high branched blossoms that drop their petals, thin as eggshells on the ground. It’s the season of blackberries and mockingbird nests and thunderstorms and delicious novels with sand in their spines.

This poem, appropriately enough called “June,” was published in Sky Island Journal last summer. Wishing you some lush and languid June days and thanks for joining me on this journey!!


The word itself, a break point

on the skin of a peach: succulence,

a texture that still tastes green.

That musters bees. Rose & magnolia

sweetly shedding their hypnotics.

Words disappear suddenly from the

tip of your tongue. It’s the sun,

someone will tell you. Wear a hat.

But, it’s this stillness. This. Stillness,

an inward ripple going slag & sweet.

Blackberry. Whippoorwill. Sand

flanneling your heirlooms and you

don’t care. Ice, a dull chime in your

sweating glass. Fan blades tsk-tsking.

Something nectared’s on the trellis.

Even the shadows are lush. The heat,

a white static. Cicada? Leave the garden

hose on. Shutter the cumulus clouds

& dream: a woman riding next to you

in a convertible loosens the flowered

scarf knotted at her throat, and it flutters

away. The hair at the nape of her neck

is humid and baby fine. Let’s drive

to the sea, she says in a honeyed voice.

Catbird blue eggshell eyes.

Her smile, tipped open to the sun,

is a tender, unruly horizon.

–Laura Sobbott Ross



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