June Baby

Poem, a work in progress that came to mind.

The first thing she breathes is daffodils,
powered sunflowers and sprinkled buttercups, distant
as they sway among the blades of forgotten grass,
that sit between the flowers like a middle child.

 

She sits in her mother's arms by the windowsill
watching the late sunset cast into the apartment
plastering dirty silloettes on the wall,
jaded by two-toned glass, appearing wild.

 

Winter is a just bedtime story her mother provides:
Porcelin flakes, and angel carvings on the ground,
because she's a June baby and only knows the sound
of June: bluejays singing in the sunrays, her mother's
laughter in the passing breeze, the visiting rain
paddeling against the windowpane.

 

Change is only a theory.
Right now its June.
It's June.