06/04/2026
-June and I-
June and I are old friends.
She arrives each year
with her arms full of flowers,
evergreens tucked beneath her sleeves,
and sunlight woven through her hair.
She walks softly through my garden,
stopping beside every bed and border,
pointing to the blooms and whispering,
“Look what you’ve grown.”
The roses she brings
are not really hers at all.
The peonies, the lilies,
the climbing vines and budding shrubs—
they are gifts wrapped long ago
in spring mornings,
dirty hands,
hopeful plans,
and patient waiting.
June simply reveals them.
She is the month of rewards,
the keeper of promises made to seeds.
She shows me that every w**d pulled,
every branch pruned,
every watering can carried
was a small act of faith.
In June,
the garden remembers.
The leaves unfurl their green banners,
the flowers open like applause,
and every corner of the yard
seems to celebrate being alive.
I wander the paths,
coffee in hand,
breathing in the perfume of blossoms,
watching bees drift from flower to flower,
feeling the quiet joy
that only gardeners truly know.
Perhaps that is why
June and I belong together.
She is the month I was born,
and somehow I feel
she has been welcoming me home
ever since.
Of all the months that pass through the year,
June is the one I love most—
gentle, generous, and full of grace.
She arrives not empty-handed,
but carrying proof
that beauty grows where love is planted.
And every year,
when she comes to visit,
she reminds me why I garden.
