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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

June in Ohio

I have learned my seasons
from Ohio.
June is a flag from a nation of hollyhocks.
It is new dust
from the old mud of May,
the uncertainty of April.
I’m not sure Africa in the south
understands this,
or the outback
with its own unique clearness.
Where else could you look into infinity?

But June is the face of a girl, in Ohio.
It smiles at you,
lets you out of school.
It is a basket of sandwiches,
morning all day long.
It is a puppy learning its name.
June is a cool bed,
an easy dream,
an orangeade glow,
an aftermath of wet ice cubes.

I don’t know when my first June happened.
The chug of the ferry to Cedar Point?
The first sunfish of the season?
Strawberries from a pail?
All of it is June.
All of it
falls into a giant topaz of blue.
I am happy,
just to walk in it,
feel it gather in my clothes,
my hair,
raining such improbable beauty
I am never left the same,
disintegrated into stars.

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