SUMMER

You would think sometimes that summer never comes
To the farmer in his field, stripped by the wind
To the blue bone, or impotent with snow.
You have become used to his ascetic form
Moving within its cell of leafless trees.
Not so; his blood uncurls with the slow sap,
Stretching itself among its sinuous boughs;
His blood grows hot, the singing cloak of flies,
Worn each day, bears witness; the stones ring
Fierce echoes of his heat; he meets himself
Everywhere in the smell of the ripe earth.