Summer gathered her children 
and rowed all the boats to the edge

of the land and waited for the darkening 
so she could close her torn hands.

She hung her apron from the moon 
and stretched her body over the horizon. 

She sang a song we couldn't hear. 

We all die when she does - 

her lonely suckling at stars
her green complaint against the sky

a reckoning. 

There are things moving we can't see
my mother says

wood beams in houses that contract
rocks rising through dirt