Summer

At evening in the woods

the cuckoos withhold their misery.

The cornstalks slant deeper into themselves,

the red poppies.

The blackening sky cracks open

over the hills.

The ancient song of the cricket

dies in the harbor.

It never stirs,

the crown of the chestnut.

Up the winding stairs

your dress rustles.

The candle’s glowing silence

darkens the room.

Your silver hand

quenches it.

Tonight, no wind, no stars.