Not yet Summer, Not yet Fall

Crows fly in a line as if
to zip the sky back into itself.
So much more in the world 
            has become undone—
But in the garden are roots
that refuse to surrender 
to the trowel, and clover
            settling the spots 
flattened by tires. We stay 
suspended in this time 
short as a sigh. As soon as
            the last jasmine fades 
and cicadas give up their coats,
the rains return. Nights flicker.
The dead still keep their counsel.

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