across the lush emerald lawn a dozen
dandelions where just three
months ago spread only white,
only grey, only such a death that could bear
birds sing summer is here with air like
sweat and o, how we wish already
for october’s smokeless burn. come january
we won’t believe the yard was once
a scrambling thicket, sparrow throats in bloom.
we’ll walk on water and think:
in july we would have drowned.