by JT Santana

She does not arrive with a trumpet—
no parade, no thunderclap.
Just a hush in the honeysuckle,
a shift in the way the sun
kisses the pavement.

June lingers at the threshold,
barefoot and golden,
arms dusted in pollen and promise.
She hums a tune the trees remember
from lifetimes of greening.

The breeze no longer hides—
it dances like it believes in itself,
whirling through open windows
and hearts too long
pressed shut by winter’s whisper.

Grass stretches like a cat in sunlight.
Creeks clear their throats with laughter.
The earth smells of second chances—
of rain that cleanses,
not just wets.

Children reappear with chalk-stained fingers
and knees scraped by joy.
Fireflies rehearse their first acts
in dusky shadows,
and even the stars seem
to lean in closer.

Welcome, Summer.
Welcome, long-limbed light.
Welcome, barefoot hours
and watermelon smiles.
Welcome to the weary ones,
the healing ones,
the ones who forgot how to bloom.

We have waited—
not just for the heat,
but for the hope it carries.
The chance to begin again
under skies that finally
mean it
when they stay blue.

So come,
and stay a while.
We are ready now—
not for perfection,
but for warmth that lasts
beyond the body,
and into the soul.