June Is An Island

Words by: Tiffany Gagnon

Image by Tiffany Gagnon

I am on an island called June. Blue is moon + the moss is heavy + swooning. The blackberry blooms are pushing fruit + everywhere you look is a promise + a pause. Soon we’ll swim naked under skies the same color as the peaches we loot every summer. I’m not sure what if this is still before.

I am on an island called before. The same song plays again + again: “Wind on the fields
Blowing your hair
Weaving gold
Weaving gold
Weaving gold
Weaving gold
Hand to hold Hand to hold.” His in mine. Petulant wine. Time here not a line. Spring is a beautiful broken record. Rain + routine fix themselves like footsteps to your pace. Fingers laced. Dime a dozen + only mine.

I am on an island called mine. Nostalgic + waiting. Watching them grow + the daffodils die. Lying down in the petrichor while one more season passes by. Blue is moon + sky is blue + sun is weaving weaving weaving gold. Summer — come + take my skin. June is an island + I am ready to swim.