I do not know the word for the furry teenagers
the fox is teaching to climb the hill.

I lived in the woods for ages
and I do not know how the blue
and white candle-like plants are called
to tell you that they are marching to meet the morning
in rows and columns
as if they are roman soldiers
discovered the advantage of the exact order
and the word for the turtles
to use when it is time to depart the shore
and dip their sun-polished shells in the mud.
I do not have the words for my feelings
of mellow existence
suspended between the acute grief
and utter happiness in pristine
and fragile balance
like a bird on a twig.
I know the name of a slender girl
who runs towards me
through the singing air.
In her name all the above things
are compressed and sealed
like insects into amber.
Her name is summer.

IRiz April 2017
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