The trees lift up their full crowns into
Domes and cones and fretwork, up
Into this late July sun breeze-stirred.
They are yielded to the glow of now,
Before another season’s stripping
Darkness, jagged, like a forgotten
Hat stand, like an old umbrella’s
Spokes after its last gust, left out,
Abandoned. They will, in their
Time be ready to let all go, just,
Not now. They are innocent of
Awareness: that the intricacy or
Bold assertion of their structures
Will, in two seasons on, when
Snow flies and until it decorates
And is swept clean again, be lashed
By boisterous gales; that encapsulating
Ice will shelter the shoots, cruelly
Crack the young stronger branches.
But all that, that misty horizon of
Time has to be open on, this late
July sun falling on all this plunging
Loveliness, whispering, whispering.
Let them this day lift up high their
Beneficent leafiness, this glowing
Bewildered beautiful July morning.