You are cold, gray June.
A sister’s birthday, what is left of us northwest bunch.
We came to sunny golden California in distant time for a company job.
My house is swept of spiders, so I sit in it even quieter today
than the day before. Sighing!
Now a big mass murder in Florida. Nothing here seems to be inching
any longer toward goodness.
Passing judgment out of our common wound.
Violence makes us unintelligible.
In contrast, ukuleles hang above the desk.
Strumming fingers ache from looking for rhythmic,
A hawk carried off a baby bird yesterday.
Just being in this flow of life and death,
surrounded on all sides by a strong curiosity.
Little added to the list of life’s definitions.
One poet calls it a magnificent disorder.
Yes, I think that is how it will be from here on.
There will be some beauty.
Some clutching for safety.
Besides tears, that is what I know is disconnected in June.