Like the darling buds of May, the splendid days
Roughly chased by heat, hanging heavy like a sigh
And the blessed dragonflies dodge and drift
And shift upon the last small cloud clear sky.
No warning call or calendar or schedule
In its own clear determined choosing
The weighted weather pushes in
Above our plaintive cries and ill thought refusing.
Weighted like a folded sheet, this heavy heat will heist
Our fresh and golden ways
And we must acquiesce as weather says “Oh yes”
And we sit quiet and count the days.