When will it be June?
Its arrival like a too bright apology
for January, unneeded, unasked for,
when I understand the silent fire
of ice so much better. And yes,
I do want pity and empathy, and
guilt and sympathy, even though
I have said that I do not.
And sorry, and sorry, and sorry, and
help, and yes, I have denied it,
but I want to rescue, be rescued -
why shouldn't I? And redemption
and love, and love, and love too, until
my tears grow tall cornflowers
from where they fall. Until I see the sun
blink through the emerald umbrella
of a summered ash tree; the cool green
of its fanned embrace, until
watered by dew and lying amongst
the long grass, I am no more
than just one more blade of it.
Image is from here: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Flaming_June_by_Frederic_Leighton.jpg