June is always a difficult month:
her honeyed light flows
as if pagan blood still ran
untrammelled, wild as roses in full bloom,
vibrant through our veins.
A yearning to the central point
found hinged on tides of change;
the twins ascend like gods, bestriding
heights with careless ease, bringing
a fiery-promised bliss.
Wanton and unruly,
she follows Primavera (in decay),
trampling, Machiavellian, over May,
and the sundial’s short, gnomonic arm
is mocked with psychopathic grace.