In July

In the midst of the intensely drumming July
- its spilling supply deafening the senses -
I long for the scarceness of spring:
To hear the pipes of its wind
- still cold from the sea -
Searching through furrowed fields;
Inviting trees - the undressed and wrinkled -
To ritual dances, daring performances;
Lastly leaving them - pregnant and swelling -
To become their fate.
The queens-to-be; one by one they ache,
Open and break;
And then again they dance:
Now, with silk crinolines and crowns
Rustling high as they try to catch the steps and move;
Now, in a most joyous ballet to the pipes' matured tunes.