Freedom Doves

June’s departing soon, but here I am still slammed. June’s marooned, like seven silkwormed cocoons, dead in their own bed of terms. June’s off-tuned, without an anthem, and there I sat, rather flat. June’s a dune, shape-shifting through the wrinkle of time, tinkled but unrhymed. June’s probably a boon, jolly to all, but there I was, mauled. June’s a monsoon, a lagoon after a typhoon, surprise before your eyes. Prepare your hot air balloon, one short, fair afternoon, as we festooned June with strings of love. Come commune in June, swoon by the moon, greet the freedom doves, above.

One step at a time. One move to move all. One's will to fulfill. One way or another.