TWO JULY POEMS
of sun each year building
my boat of wavering sleep
as heat swims on air
to reach a beached tree;
no crash of bird or rose
sinks this high hammock
sol makes just with itself;
only nature is artificer
enough to change a world
by degrees, as instant as
weather which is creation
of new terms to live on.
I drift for once with dry book
as a child aloft on poetry;
summer is its own genre,
shaded garden in a library
heart borrows from a shelf
then keeps forever forgotten;
parted early brightness years
the loan we cannot return.
Speaking to themselves
what we call flowers
what we see as colours
know their requirements
so act accordingly at night
and dawn, mid-summer
or when frost comes on;
nothing we say is meant
as rain to feed their stamens,
pistils, buds or leaves; bright
petals lure in what needs
nectar, their vines explore
smart like the digital world;
connection is nature’s word;
we learn the language of them
then arrogate our names for
their complete extensions of
baroque entanglements above
human orders or ideals of love.
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