June is speeding along. We’re a third of the way through the month! But the honeysuckle is still out, at least for now. So for the fourth year in a row I’m revisiting the topic of my favorite wildflower in my sonnets. (I write two lines in a sonnet each day, thus producing one sonnet a week; I’ve been doing this since January 1, 2023. You can read more about this project in Chapter 3 of Big Time.)
Here’s 2026’s offering, “Honeysuckle on the trail”
The woods smell damp with mud, but then a whiff
of sweetness, this elixir on the breeze
pulls me to linger here, to pause and sniff,
amid the buzzing drone of swollen bees.
Somewhere there is a vine, somewhere a scent
of blooms all white and golden, hidden well,
but certain as the rocks on this descent.
This brush with summer secrets seeks to tell
of honeysuckle days, when heat is new —
still fragile. June is always Friday night,
still full of possibility. The few
days gone are little jewels, the stretching light
is full of wonder, all the world will shine,
just like the flowers on this fragrant vine.
