Transformation

In place of foamy flowers

come stark bracts

tipped with sparse green beads

coalescing into would-be berries

curiously few;

May’s abundance replaced by

austere June. Rocked by high winds,

the heavens in turmoil,

your sacrificial wound gashes

against the fence, groaning

while I long for the slow heat, the haze of

never-ending childhood summers.

22.6.12