light leaning longer into the day,
heat learning the shape of the world again.
I meet it there,
in the slow return of sun on skin,
in mornings that feel almost ordinary.
The body keeps its private negotiations,
quiet wars I did not choose,
but still I get up,
still I open the window
and let summer in anyway.
There is something stubborn in that,
this reaching for warmth
while carrying what I carry.
June does not ask for certainty.
Only presence.
Only the next small yes.