Summer(I)

There's a bright garden, low walls around it,
made of dry grass and of light that's slowly
cooking the soil. A light that  smells of the sea.
You breathe the grass in. You touch your hair
and shake the memory out.

                              I've often seen
fruit falling, ripe landing on grass I know
with a thud. Even you are startled at times
by quickening blood. You move your head
as if miracles of air were swirling around you,
but the miracle's you. Your eyes and the heart
of memory: they taste just the same.
 
                                   You listen.
The words reaching your ears barely touch you.
On your calm face, a bright thought bathes you,
as if from behind, in something like sea light.
On your face, a silence that lands on my heart
with a thud, and draws from it pain as ancient
as the juice from fruit that fell in those days.