Long, glorious noon. The sun is at its height
so that the trees afford no shelter here
and solid things now more and more appear
brown shadows of themselves, from too much light.
The beach is baked and dry beneath the sun.
Slow afternoon. The sweetest hour of all
is that which closes past the little wall
in pallid sunset; then my day is done.
Kingfisher, show me, hovering in the drought,
where vestiges of fragile life remain.
The deeper joy in autumn’s welcome rain
will come to those who wait the season out.
