We're now in the full ripeness of June. The newborn baby blue skies and just-unfurling leaves... full of infant chlorophyll are past now.
The adolescent blooms of summer are more mature and wizened. The last burst of arrogance before humility retakes them again in fall.
Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;
overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,
dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds...
... so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
... It’s been doing that all week:
and throwing it away,
and making more.
Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,
which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.
What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.
Wishing everyone a wonderful summer to come.
All words in italics from the poem "A Color of the Sky" by Tony Hoagland.