It’s June in the summer I was afraid of
and everything is fine.
(Were things always this green? The early summer air always so perfumed?)
There is a lake I can visit every day if I want to.
I sit and stare and feel the breeze on my skin
I listen to the waves and the wind rustle through the trees.
I try to remember that I can come back.
That I can have a night like this again,
I try not to feel like this substance is running out.
Like the trees feel taller and greener this year
Because it’s some final performance.
As if the curtains are going to close
And everything I see should have already expired.