Letting Go of Summer

If someone were to ask me
Where my summer has gone
I would say:
Into the gold in the mown fields under my feet
Or under the carpet of damp leaves
Along the path near the line of trees.

In winter it will rest
Under a layer of ice,
Blanketed its tired strength,
Lying in wait for trumpets to sound
Spring's awakening
To make my summer happen again.

Collected Poems 16
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