The flowers of lion’s teeth
withered. We blew
and they lifted.
White globes barely
held together, holding,
then exploding.
In hand, wind-downed
sticks were scepters.
Clover knotted
into coronation crowns.
All of this according
to the order of afternoon
and our hair still blonde.
Under the oaks
in the root-throned dim,
summer tipped like a bell,
and the acorns fell—
the chill a swung scythe, coming.
