Last Hay

We know as we do it we’re spreading the summer—

mowed bales we unroll,

vitamin grass to swaddle our plantings

our garlic seed wedged, dragon’s teeth in chill soil.

Over this we tamp down cut meadow,

summer’s green skirt, laid down to rot.

Raking in sunshine

the spreading is sweet:

spice, heat and honey,

a lover’s good bed.

Later the scent peels off in the shower.

Cold scours the night raw.

In dark fields, the frosts glitter.