The Hay Bale Heart Of Summer

The hay bale hunkered upon the hillside,
wound round within itself, tight and yet soft,
gilded with the sun gleaming along its hide
or shaded by passing clouds, fat and floating aloft.
Beneath it, a green wildfire of grass rolled like a wave
spreading downhill before relaxing as if unto a bed
below a blue sky yawning like an airy cave
and trees gathered afar, bowing each heavy head.
I am akin to you, my silent, stoic hay bale,
basking in the light of of another dawn,
like rays of the sun pooled into a funneling pail
and sleeping atop the foothills, threshed and drawn
unto a woven spool of Summer, coiled and aglow,
or soggy in the cold rains of weepy Fall,
or bearded with the white blankness of snow
when the somber black and white Winter rules over all.
And yet, even then your heart is Summery and warm,
feeding the animals as they await the Spring,
and thus feeding us all through Winter’s storm,
until ice has melted and winds no longer sting.
Kin, see how both of us, after a heavy dew,
give rise to dream mists in the cooling night,
fuming a fog of ghosts in a boggy brew
that lasts as daydreams linger in the morning light?
If only the child-hearted would delight in my mind
as they do you, climbing the curvature of your flanks,
or rolling you downhill, as they all run behind,
laughing to see you leap in joy, and in thanks.

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