The flowers of lion’s teeth
withered. We blew
and they lifted.

White globes barely
held together, holding,
then exploding.

In hand, wind-downed
sticks were scepters.
Clover knotted
into coronation crowns.

All of this according
to the order of afternoon
and our hair still blonde.

Under the oaks
in the root-throned dim,
summer tipped like a bell,
and the acorns fell—

the chill a swung scythe, coming.