more than enough

the first lily of June opens its red mouth.

All over the sand road where we walk

multiflora rose climbs trees cascading 

white or pink blossoms, simple, intense

the scene drifting like colored mist.

The arrowhead is spreading its creamy 

clumps of flower and the blackberries

are blooming in the thickets. Season of

joy for the bee.  The green will never

again be so green, so purely and lushly

new, grass lifting its wheaty seedheads

into the wind.  Rich fresh wine

of June, we stagger into you smeared 

with pollen, overcome as the turtle 

laying her eggs in the roadside sand.

By Marge Piercy