I love the promises June delivers along with the purple Dutch iris petals it unfurls on the first day of the month. June assures us that we will sleep with open windows; that we’ll close our eyes to the ratcheting croak of tree frogs and wake bleary-eyed at dawn to a chorale of robins, blue jays and wrens. June vows that the air will dabble like soft paint brushes and that even if it rains, we’ll jam our feet into flip flops–no socks required. It pledges short sleeve mornings, coffee on the patio—newness that unwraps like a gift. The calendar says late spring, but June turns the page and broadcasts summer with showy rhododendron blooms, screaming blue skies, and gardens that plump and swell.
I look out the window to Kelly green grass, to the birds swooping over the back, to the almost drained hummingbird feeder, filled to the brim two days ago, and know we are on the cusp of all that is good, all that is right, all that I wait for.