By the change of light, a hedge rose,
if you ask,
may wander the clouds and roads
            Dusty when not misty
Whereby the passers avoid a hidden Southern drop
Still, angles are gentle here;
no plain escarpment or lateral cascades. Tragic mishaps
Only two young ridges
in exchange, pace the soft roads between them 
 
Back and forth as the roses pale
and the sunflowers swell to fall
Back to the West, where strange forces bay the smog of disaster,
most impossibly long days, until the gray sea finds berth in valley shoulders
            And the passers walk the bed   
Oh wind, particulate friend
How you move across, through that water
bare-back to the mist or dust
and again, we walk the rose hedge fine and easy
            Even if flowers were the price of Summer
 
When was summer?
How did we come to pass
            these tremendous dream-hours
                        these shrinking months           

~Solomon