Such constancy is no celebration.
Under this careful sky
it is only earth we walk on.
The long day empties.
The small things, so vital, quicken and fly.
Already no song in the garden.
The fires we build along the northern edge
are no more upsetting to the air
than breath. Is this love?
A cure for the visible.
Fern seed gathered this midsummer midnight
would render us as clear.