June is an exacting timekeeper,
unwavering in her duties,
inscribing arcs of fire
against the sky,
casting the afternoon shadows
at the corpse of each day.
She counts out the seconds with unfaltering grace,
unswayed by pleas or bargains.
You cannot haggle with June;
she passes, uncaring.
Even as we are caught
in our own torporous eddies
and rapids of excitement,
June marches on,
deaf to our pleas to quicken or linger.
Too often we cross and recross bygone roads,
circling old regrets,
where we still remain.
But no matter how much we entreat,
the past remains the past,
entrenched in stone, unyielding.
And yet other times we strain ourselves
to see what will come to be
when we seek the future
we forget the now,
which slips us by like water through fingers,
caught up in shaping the things to come.
For the now is the only thing that ever will be.
The past is past, the future yet unforged;
the now will never be again.
June is brief.
Ask her out, jump out of that plane,
hike down the shore,
write that novel,
plant those peas,