June

sometimes in June                the skies will break open;

unfathomably
                          giving way to laughter and a shower
of moments too pristine for their owners
                                                           that like words
tumble down and bump you on the nose
and you say, "oh, excuse me"
                                              like a half-awake,
                                                                        passing
                                                                                    snail

and I wonder
if moments could be captured, put in coffee cups
and stored alongside
                               my jam jars and glass bottles
until they're needed again,
like on days when I don't have
                                             you?


I try sometimes to call the morning sundrops
                                                         out of hiding,
brazen against a roof of rainclouds
                      a curtain of water
                      and all at once too noisy thunder

I will think,
                  please hurry,
                                              we have whole lives to get to.