In summer time from an air-conditioned room
I love to watch the garden.
From the nascence of this cool dark
...the flies and flowers in their quiet light!
...a gush of air near hot, I think,
as that same stillness
where the same leaves begin to sink
on limbs as heavy as the coming night.
I nod, in my cushioned rocker,
and in nodding doze.
What dreams would link
that rustic passion to my own
air-conditioned ease?

I suppose
...a garden where the green and heat
have withered up and fallen
to that silence of the first night
when it snows
and lonely icicles assume
the privilege of such branches
as they freeze.