I THINK I will write you a letter, June day. Dear June Fifth, you're all in green, so many kinds and all one green, tree shadows on grass blades and grass blade shadows. The air fills up with motor mower sound. The cat walks up the drive a dead baby rabbit in her maw. The sun is hot, the breeze is cool. And suddenly in all the green the lilacs bloom, massive and exquisite in color and shape and scent. The roses are more full of buds than ever. No flowers. But soon. June day, you have your own perfection: so green to say goodbye to. Green, stick around a while. -- James Schuyler
James Schuyler has written the perfect poem: a love letter to a day in June. Not just any day. Today.
June green is unlike any other, vibrant and alive, still nourished by the spring rains, not yet ruined by hot sun, nor eaten by insects. Next to the June green, the peonies are more vibrant, the sundrops more sunny, the daisies more pure. Yes, June green is more.
The gardens are planted, red pears and green apples are growing, cherries are ripening, birds are nesting, perching, and singing.
The wild primrose opened in Sunday’s sun and surprised the surrounding motley plants. Her dazzling yellow perks up the shabby shed and makes the neighboring weeds look more stately.
The new gate opens wide and the new fence keeps the fruit trees in and the riffraff critters out (so far).
If I stand by the garden gate I can watch the grape vines growing, their tendrils curling around and around. The grapes are too small still to be more than a vague hope. Will they be sweet? Will they be juicy? Will they be jam or wine?
The cherries are yellow, blushing pink. I ate one today, still sour, still small. Bluebirds are nesting in the eaves of the porch; wrens are nesting by the door. They can have some cherries as long as they share the deep blue June sky.
Dear June fifth, you are glorious. You are enough.