Summer Comes On Slowly Restless as a wet seed I long for brown dirt to sprout and turn me green with

harvest’s rich delights. For now, only sublime stones crop to the surface. My fork meets them fiercely and sends lightning down my wrist bone, metal bending in agony. I retreat to the shady corners where damp white clover invites me to build an altar in the shadow of last year’s. I watch wild irises colonize other people’s gardens as I wait, patient for my own blue progress To match this fertile earth. Seasons keep wrapping around us until we are perennial to this place like the flower who returns for a bee. Lisa Masé

Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful