Summer

Summer

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 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.