by: Marge Piercy
The first lily of June opens its red mouth.
All over the sand road where we walk
multiflora rose climbs trees cascading
white or pink blossoms, simple, intense
the scene drifting like colored mist.
The arrowhead is spreading its creamy
clumps of flower and the blackberries
are blooming in the thickets. Season of
joy for the bee. The green will never
again be so green, so purely and lushly
new, grass lifting its wheaty seedheads
into the wind. Rich fresh wine
of June, we stagger into you smeared
with pollen, overcome as the turtle
laying her eggs in roadside sand.
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It feels like summer has finally arrived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan today. When I got in my car this afternoon, the temperature was 75 degrees. As I sit in my office here at the university, waiting to administer a final exam, all I really want to do is go outside, lie in the grass, and thank God that winter may finally be in the rear view mirror.
In celebration of this weather, I am going to focus on summer poems this week. Poems that make me feel the sun on my head, the sand in my toes, and the smell of lilac in my nose. I could shower in this day and be clean for weeks.
Saint Marty may get naked under the full moon tonight and dance.
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