| Collected Poems 16 |
Letting Go of Summer
If someone were to ask
Where my summer has gone—,tell him:
Into the gold of the mown fields under foot
Or beneath the carpet of damp leaves
Along the path
At the wood's edge.
In winter it will rest
Under a layer of ice,
Its tired strength blanketed,
Lying in wait for trumpets to sound
Spring's awakening
To make summer happen again.
If someone were to ask
Where my summer has gone—,tell him:
Into the gold of the mown fields under foot
Or beneath the carpet of damp leaves
Along the path
At the wood's edge.
In winter it will rest
Under a layer of ice,
Its tired strength blanketed,
Lying in wait for trumpets to sound
Spring's awakening
To make summer happen again.