‘A Warm Summer’

The fields rise with water,

And at last they are drained of death.

The close-green packed plants,

The light’s breath

Of greenness on the soil;

All the infants’ foil

Is shaken on the slaughter

Of a warm summer.

The past year’s forgotten field

Remains unearthed,

With only a few small carrots,

And the handle roots

Of disbelieved children

—children of the hot sun—

Left behind.