When summer drops, out of the green Spring folds
and scatters in a flight of waking bees.
When owls rise in warm twilights
to add their baritone praise to the chorus of growing pains
just behind the dark of every tree –
In this spot, at this time, on this night
(no heron mars your sight) you know
what lovers know when their temples flush,
or crickets when their ankles rub,
or the night when it sees,
or the sea when the tide – swells potent to the moon.
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