Twenty-First of June

The yellow elegies of spring

Burned up in the heat

Weeks ago, dead

Before their time. And now

It's official. I lay this

Wreath of words

On the rose; I throw a handful

Of dirt on the dirt.

The green shoots,

The rootlings brave in snow,

Grow fat and lazy now,

And the big trees

Bulge with birds, a leafquake

Of wind and raw song,

Piping hot.

The season's just begun, and already

I can smell the seeping

Wounds of pinebark,

Air that blisters in the sun;

Already I can feel

The sweat

Slide down the face of summer and

Pool in the steamy streets.

Whatever's ahead of us,

I don't want to know. Just let me

Sit here in the shade and

Listen to