The hornets that sting
are patrolling the grass
and the grasshoppers sing,
but the summer will pass-
when the frost of the morning
unspools all its thread
the cicadas and earthworms
and bees will be dead
and the husk of my heart
will be green in the sun,
overcome by the year
and the thing it has done,
as a sexton that only
the grasshoppers know
inters it with leaves
and again with the snow.