Deep Summer

The tall old willow has that deep‑summer look

of heaviness, of tired reluctance in the breeze

as if it has no heart to move or change its droop

though when it’s stirred at times like these

it takes on a slow grace in its long limbs –

a commonsense resolve to bend and not be broken.

So it is. Leaves complain but part. Evening

pushes in, wading through this wearisome heat.

Honeysuckle blossoms, climbing the fence to cling

seem small and pale against the dark fields

like a child’s hands against the years to come.

We sit about the porch. Young and old alike, enduring.