Time's Shortest Season

From Heaven’s dripping eaves the lawns and leaves and gardens drink

And buds, bound by God’s timing burst in floral purple-pink

I think that June must be a glimpse of what awaits beyond

This little dot of blue beneath a sweep of azure bond

Like love’s soft-metered serenade, breeze-notes waft on mid-day

And up among the leafy tress nature’s balladeers play

I think that June must surely be Time’s fairest madrigal

Where every flower is a maiden fit for earth’s fine ball

The tempest of tick-tock can turn the raven lock to gray

And strip the plume of bloom and June of green-enveloped day

I think that June must weep as moments seep from Here to There

Where all the while sweet summer’s child plucks flowers from her hair

Before the door to nevermore swings shut on soundless hinge

Before the ballroom floor of earth is decked with withered fringe

Come, meander the meadow bent with months leading to fall

For I think June must be Time's shortest season of them all

© Janet Martin