June Bug

http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/06/june-bug/

Hello, June. I look away a moment, and you’ve arrived in alexandrite, pearl, sunshine, and a weightless world. Everything’s on me, Heracles, but I’m along the ridge and gone. A season of life is come and aloft, and suddenly I’m a child no longer. May I still be one?
I’m wobbling in place, and flirting with the precipice, and everything is upon me at once: summer, home buying, weddings, graduations, mortgages, goodbyes, travel, moving, faith, love, hope, patience, hurry, flowers, exhaustion, tension, uncertainty, opportunities, roads, activity, danger, water, the warrior, the king, anima, existentialism, philosophy, friendship. It’s the realization that the daffodils, rhododendrons, tulips, roses, strawberries, raspberries, grapes, geraniums, nasturtiums, crimson dragons, maples, poplars, plums, apples and all the beautiful trees are efflorescing in time with the weeds: the horsetail, scotch broom, thistles, dewberries, poison oak, nettles. 
Spring does not choose only joyful blooms, but the weeds spread seeds in sync. And are they not beautiful, also? The blackberries, “big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes / ebon in the hedges, fat / with blue-red juices” as Sylvia Plath wrote; or the belled foxtail and the huckleberries with their lovely little berries hung out; the blue-button flowers, pervasive and poisonous; queen anne’s lace, so blithe despite its near resemblance to hemlock, and the death of Socrates.
My life is such, as wide with weeds as the world, yet full of trees, valleys, rivers, and peaks as well, wildflowers gracing the faces and banks of each. I’m reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, currently, and I see in the fanciful fiction some of me: the journey, the home, the community that comes and goes, the unexpected additions, blessings and curses, and the oddity of it all. But it’s still lovely, and it’s mine, absorbed into a little Macondo in me, like the precious pearl in Steinbeck’s story, both drawing me together and rending me apart. I’m a cross-stitch mess, a knitting nightmare, and I’m likely to be unraveled and re-begun for the summer’s out.
And I’m excited, frightened, ready – anyone can come along.
My heart’s a magic carpet
aloft beneath the heavens
my arabesque thoughts
and minarets, whirl,
a world to resurrect 
with regress and love
I’m signing a curvature of signature into a thousand filed bureaucracies, an ugly necessity of an angry system. So many complaints, so much nightmarish idiocy and everyone covers their tracks with a thousand words of legal mystery. 
I’m too late, too late by half. With some stories, the protagonist never has a chance, but history is writ by the winners, even if there is none. Is this all Pyrrhic?