Nine Junes

an archive of noticing.

It’s June again. This season I am collecting clothes in red and running up the credit card bill. It’s June again and I am listening to Fly on repeat. It’s June again and I am taking notice.

Notice how the morning breeze sings a song about the future. Former wishes float back to me. Notice the rising temperature and the smarmy dew of makeup that never dries. Notice the new shadows gracing my skin. Peaks of muscle in known valleys of softness. Notice how the earth beneath my feet has shifted from shedding to blooming and all that’s left now is green.

Did you notice that it is June again?

Notice how deep the well of grief is? Notice how often you seem to find your way back to the surface? Did you notice the power tucked within the quiet? Notice the nerve found in being still?

It’s June again.

Notice how my car is a science experiment, filled with bugs/debris/webs of things from nine Junes spent with the windows rolled down. Notice how all this time I was wishing for rain. Notice the spaces where I am resisting. Finger trails through an armor of pollen. Notice how hard feelings are most certainly guaranteed.

It’s June again.

Someday soon, once I’ve strung together a few clear days and collected my pretty red things, my poetry/my breath/my song will return to this body and soon you too will notice.

Notice my hunger and how my old ways tell me to be. Notice just how long I’ve been here laying low in the lush green of waiting.