June Morning and June Evening

By John Ziegler

June Morning

The  wind brushing the tall pines at night 
sounds like the husk of woodwinds. 

Morning light ignites the honeysuckle,

sunshine warms my back.

In my out - of - round bowl,
voluptuous strawberries covered with
home brewed yogurt,
a slice of crusty toast.

This lofty June morning
small golden bees wander among white flowers.

Wasps float aimlessly above the birdbath 
then find the dish.
They do something with their hands, 
wash them, I think.

After deep harsh months,
the earth has changed to color,
its mood from pensive to euphoric.

The stiff trees of winter,
give birth to tender leaves.

Flowers orange and blue  
break through softened ground.

The brown birds have traveled,
the quick, bright ones arrive. 

The gray smell of ice, evaporated,
the fecund scent of soil rising
and the air itself
is irrepressible with lust.

June Evening

The pines have grown pale green candles.
The branches below are dark and quiet.

I disappear into the grand June evening,
on the breeze through trees
now lit by alpenglow.

A hummingbird grazes my ear
jetting into the penstemon for a nightcap.

I sit under the pergola to write her a letter.
She was with me through the day 
while I painted the eaves of my cottage,
hazel eyes, singing.

The hummer, from a slim branch,
glides to the red Monarda,
hovers flower to flower,
then back to her perch.
The aspen leaves quake like silent applause.

She studies the air
and preens, ruffles her feathers.

Tonight, her tiny wire claws will clasp a twig
where she will sleep without falling off. 

No planning.
No thinking.
Being.

Tomorrow more painting, high on the ladder,
grateful for the perfect light and perfect air
that I had longed for all winter.

Then mail her letter.

John Ziegler is a poet and painter, a gardener, a traveler, originally from Pennsylvania, recently migrated to a mountain village in Northern Arizona.