A late calm in the hot days
Cures me of what can’t be cured—
Words, age, poems—that sort of thing.
Eyes closed, I still watch the hills;
Short lies, I lie out at night.
When rose clouds block the last sun
And thick leaves choke with the songs
Of things that sing for more life,
For their lives, I find that joy
Does not have to be pure, but
Can come from a mind’s late calm,
Which can’t but be pure. That’s fine.