Fairest June, a bouquet of gods away;
yet timid, hides from frost with soapwort sway.
Miss Spring has washed her hands these two months past
of winter’s ice green tendrils, clinging fast.
First bird of morning, crimson pointing blue,
an oriole orders my passage through,
a dancing skink conducts the railroad beat
in time, wind-rushed, to rest with sun-baked feet.