In your turquoise chair, all night I write, peaceful sleep all afternoon. My ever wandering soul still drifts, as in waking you ask ..No, I do not worry said I about June.
I never did get to ask him, or locate “June”…one of his more obscure works indeed.
She is bound off for Poland, Pashmina on, unwanted hair all gone. I trust that she will write a postcard soon. No, I do not worry about June. She took me in. On a Sunday afternoon, the town of Fairlie, raining hard. June caught me snitching a rose from her yard. In stern appraisal of my kilt and manky plaid shirt, loomed over me did June as I trembled in the dirt. and introduced myself as Godfrey.
“I dislike beets and snitched your rose in bloom, I am a harmless vagabond, forgive me.” Do not worry about it, replied June. She painted pretty…this dairy farmer raised in the big city. Painted delicate depictions of her sons that hung in the hall. Ferry Boats crossing paths, alder woods in Fall, Fishing Trawlers home bound at sunset in rank. “One of my paintings hangs on the wall at the bank” June, humbly told me. A big strong woman, June, I do not worry.
For she was much more than a life defined by cows. A woman of grace and culture, twice a day wades through manure. Morning and at eve she goes, to scrub the milk tank clean with brush and hose. June dances in the memory of a young vagabond. “The first morning we lived here she said, I looked out across the duck-pond, and I saw the morning star” It shall be your star June, wherever you are.” I told her this from Godfrey, as we danced beneath the moon,” Oh I do not worry at all about June.”.