The first Sunday evening in June
is like that famous score by John Cage
He had the idea
to write a piece of music
that instructed every musician
to simply and simultaneously
to not play any note or sound
for four minutes and thirty-three seconds.
It was an experimental,
and an homage to his legacy occurs
every first Sunday evening in June.
Spring had never considered
something like rest—
not since her crocus spears
had pierced Winter’s icy soles
in the great awakening of earth.
Spring’s symphony of ceaseless energy
had shocked the stick landscape
and shook out its mane.
Spring had roared and rushed,
and dashed and pranced,
and stitched and spun,
and babbled and burst—
but she had not rested.
She had been altogether unacquainted
–unacquainted, that is,
until the first Sunday evening in June.
June has, at long last,
taught Spring how to rest.
June has stilled that capricious nymph
and calmed her frantic cadence.
June’s noble verdancy
and golden twilights
something altogether new:
a thing novel and as yet unknown.
June has gifted the world a rest,
It is here with us now,
a citronella sigh
in a crystalline chalice,
on this first Sunday evening in June.
June 2, 2019