June Means Giant Butterflies

In our mountain home, the windows wide,
I faced the garden, green and alive.
Each June, the air grew slow and bright—
giant butterflies entered the light.

They rested on walls, on curtain, on air,
borrowed our ceiling, borrowed our care.
Then left by morning, soft and soon,
as if summoned only by June.

A child learns patterns before she learns proof.
I learned this one like a permanent truth:
June means wings the size of my face,
golden visitors with royal grace.

June means my brother, candles, noise,
wooden swords, invented wars,
laughter spilling past the gate—
a house too full to regulate.

So I believed—because children decide—
some people are magic without trying.
And every year, the wings returned,
as if the month itself had learned.

— Casey Huang
1997