Summer Is
a lazy god, and all promises.
He says he will never leave,
Was a long
time coming
With swallows in his air –
Petulant, weeping.
Waking
early one morning
I watch him from the bedroom window
Barefoot on the
wet grass,
Stalking the garden and beside himself
With all the brilliant
flowers.
With soft, dry hands he soothes their heavy heads.
My children’s
books, too,
That were carelessly left on the lawn all night,
Unread
and ruined by the rain.
from The
Memory Tray
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