There's a stillness in the eye Of late September's summer That mirrors out a pause That knows a stop Has drawn a breath before the sigh, Can see fatigue Can hold the iris, moth, and garden fly Bleached and still against the tree. Click whirrrrlook: Here inside this tarnished depth of field A trip-wire vine has dried, no longer chokes My satin finished okra. Out beyond the framing oaks My tardy plums have swollen through Their frosting, and there: A tassle case unwoven sifting Cotton-shrapneled quill and seed. What am I to do With this discolored summer, This dull magician, stagnant bloomer? I'd think it nice to hear Dissolution's rumor. To hear he'd stirred the dust-leaved torpor, To hear he'd caught the gardener by the sleeve Drawn close upon his ear, Drawn a breath before the sigh And whispered just a hint Of Ice.