June (The rain is falling in veils)

The rain is falling in veils today,

humbling the trees whose faces

it hides, ghost-whispering its intentions,

making sanctuaries of places

which before the rain had had no walls

to write on. The new yellow dog

and I took a walk when it let up

a bit and we were a cog

in the day’s great gears: big rain, big wind,

white noise of wet leaves,

far cars, the patient ease and shuffle

of gravel as it received

our weight. Wildflowers are really

just starting to show their color

now and the driveway is lined with whites

and yellows, pale pink of the taller

clover, the tiny blues of that violety

thing I know is not

a violet; even the plantain with

its nothing-blossom is caught

up in the mood, hurling love

at the bees. But I like most

the wild dianthus I’ve always called

a pin-flower (because as host,

I feel like I’m allowed to make up

names), its single prick

of pink like beautiful blood in the grass.

Tough stems make them hard to pick

so I usually leave them there, but I brought

one in for you as I write.

It’s in a little glass on the table,

petals offering light,

extra light, to the room around me.

It is an immigrant

but grows well in the shade here, patient,

starry blossoms spent

one pink star at a time. Up close,

each of the five petals

has small spots like freckles on a face

that knows it is beautiful,

meaning it has filled itself with beauty.

Is it for me? I’m not sure.

I’m not sure beauty needs the beholder,

I’m not sure it needs to be pure,

or deemed pure, that is, so I won’t call it

that. I’ll say instead

it’s some kind of message, light transformed

into something somebody said.