Like the moon she swims in darkness.
She gives, and only hands can block her gifts.
She wraps herself in blues and greens
and tastes of loam and snow, of marmalade
and rolling thunder.
Summer hides within the everglades with her,
and plays upon her belly.
But Summer’s knees are getting older now,
older as the rocking earth a slower,
slower movement makes.
She sleeps, and quiet trees and green birds
with eyes like conduits to god record and watch
the burst with which, too late,
summer struggles to be free,
and gasping, drowns in autumn.