We spend much time planning. Meanwhile, sumac flourishes

in the unmown meadow, and you chop dill and chives

for the morning’s omelet to the strains of Cecilia Bartoli

singing a Handel aria. Butter, eggs, the proper pan,

all for a meal we’ll eat in minutes, minutes from now.

Yet, in this moment, I think of how I love you

in the process of making omelets, which is your way of loving.

The meadow fills its contained horizons with goldenrod,

tall enough to keep hidden the white tails and oval ears

of your many kin. But you step from yellow-green waves

as rapidly as a breeze: there you stand where a second ago

there was but yarrow, and not even the grass moved,

there wasn’t a tremble from the Joe Pye weed to announce

that you’ve come to eat the ripe pears, pendulous fruit

hanging pendant from the over-weighted boughs. Now

you kick open the windfalls to bury your tongue and

muzzle deep into sweet flesh. You graceful and salacious

ruminant! Carry summer’s sugar into the coming autumn, 

feast, lap, gobble. And, like summer, disappear.