Summer, too, is a death:
of blossoming greenness, of apple
and lilac dementia,
and furtive epiphany.
Something that cries “holy”
between the worlds
takes on the mantle
of solidity.
And that which leaps there,
enrapts us at the moment of birth,
calling us to ourselves,
is never again beheld—
but always lived now,
summer’s dreaming:
into the fruiting
of the fields,
the voices of the scythes,
where sleeps the glorious story;
and we play.