Has summer ever not wound to school,
wounding me with its insistent buzz and chirp:
work, work, work; done and gone, done and gone.
I try to freeze the days with compressors and sleep,
keep the nights as late as I can, blinking dots and books.
A few tasks, the mechanic’s, the stylist’s, the party, and the jaunt.
When the moon blooms full and bright as marigolds
and the naked ladies pop up pink and plain as ever
while the marsh mallows wave over small rooftops,
and the cicadas are stunned and dragged down
into burrows to live twice their lives
as food for some other species’ young,
we wake again and go, we teachers, we book-holders,
we paralyzed buzzers, our hair trimmed and our clothes new,
we go unarmed into their burrows, bringing our lives along.
— Laura Lee Washburn