The trees are dark and heavy, my love,
heavy with the sound of the locust—
the dead of summer has arrived.
The lane scripts its old questions
carefully down a canyon of trees.
Green, the sunlight shifts
and dims the credibility of things,
and then the pond is a field,
weedy and green, weedy;
the hospital, dirty squares of light
against a background of trees
dark with the sound of the locust.
Sleeping god in an age of plagues,
give us the chance to use the past tense.
Let us, with the charity of middle age, lie:
“Yes, it was all so beautiful. . . .”