"oh, how pretty is the middle of june."

Oh June.
You are hot and cold and warm and fuzzy and you are you.
You come and you go, just like all months do,
And you bring good and bad, like all things do,
But still I like you more than other months.
Why, June, why?

June you are apple martinis and caviar,
You are a hometown boy with Budweiser and chicken fry,
You are home sweet home and miles away
But still you are with me, with me still.
How can you do that, June?
Magical, magical June.

You weave poems out of thin air, June,
Poems about July and sometimes August.
You tell us of whats to come,
Of crisp air and tangy breaths and clouds that form our words.
But not yet, not yet- first there must be
The burning out of the old before the
Coming of the new.

"Oh how pretty is the middle of June,"
He sang, and I listened and waited and imagined
The pretty things that come with sun and ocean and
Sky. How pretty you are, June.
But I'll forget you when I fall in love with
July.