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June has always been an insubstantial month for me. When I think of June, nothing really comes to mind. No school, yes, but that is also a void. June is heat. June is mid-summer. June is so far from the first cold fronts of November. June is not the beginning of summer. Summer begins in April, after that last luke-warm breath of March. June is thunderstorms in earnest. Time spent in the pool. Time spent near the pool, fishing out bugs and lizards. Mowing the lawn at 8am on Saturday, not because it was cooler, but because it was much less likely to be raining. But these things are summer, not June in particular.
Now, June is different. June has a flavor. Spring is clearly at an end. Spring, which I've only lived through once before, petering out in gasps of color here and there. Not so much petering in the Pacific NW, but rather the smaller, vibrant spring flowers are giving way to the big, lazy, but longer-lasting flowers of summer. There's a definite difference, which I'd never noticed before. Of course, most of these flowers and plants I've never seen before. Summer here is variety, in more ways than one. And June is the beginning of that.
June here is lying in grass that doesn't scratch and watching fat ants crawl across the wood, ants which you haven't seen in months and nearly forgot existed. Bees are out in abundance, making boots out of pollen. Where have they been all winter and springs? Where did they go? I picture bees nestled tightly together in their hives while outside it snows, buzzing sleepily to each other about the last summer and the summer to come.
June here is berries, strawberries and nectarines and pluots, frozen yoghurt and chilled blueberry tea. Real berries will come later; the thorny and crotchety blackberry bushes are just now blooming.
June here is green things, crisp lettuces and cucumbers, fresh basil and spinach. Cool cucumber soup has never sounded so appealing. The bright green fingers of new growth on the evergreens and the light green new leaves of spring turning a darker shade with age. Landscape and places we haven't seen or been to since winter are so vastly different with color that we don't recognize them.
June is wanting the clouds again. June is wanting the misty rain. June is an excitement for summer which I've never had before.
Now, June is different. June has a flavor. Spring is clearly at an end. Spring, which I've only lived through once before, petering out in gasps of color here and there. Not so much petering in the Pacific NW, but rather the smaller, vibrant spring flowers are giving way to the big, lazy, but longer-lasting flowers of summer. There's a definite difference, which I'd never noticed before. Of course, most of these flowers and plants I've never seen before. Summer here is variety, in more ways than one. And June is the beginning of that.
June here is lying in grass that doesn't scratch and watching fat ants crawl across the wood, ants which you haven't seen in months and nearly forgot existed. Bees are out in abundance, making boots out of pollen. Where have they been all winter and springs? Where did they go? I picture bees nestled tightly together in their hives while outside it snows, buzzing sleepily to each other about the last summer and the summer to come.
June here is berries, strawberries and nectarines and pluots, frozen yoghurt and chilled blueberry tea. Real berries will come later; the thorny and crotchety blackberry bushes are just now blooming.
June here is green things, crisp lettuces and cucumbers, fresh basil and spinach. Cool cucumber soup has never sounded so appealing. The bright green fingers of new growth on the evergreens and the light green new leaves of spring turning a darker shade with age. Landscape and places we haven't seen or been to since winter are so vastly different with color that we don't recognize them.
June is wanting the clouds again. June is wanting the misty rain. June is an excitement for summer which I've never had before.
