True Western Summer

Corporeal summer, no marvel is lost
In your obsession to be real.
To love you has been my boast
In the bald days of cactus and hawk
Where never a brook in liquid shade rolls green, Nor softly to my heart rambles
the rain, And to love you humbly under the feet of the quail, By fallen acacia
seed and brown bud, And in the poor kingdom of the crowded toad, Whose
wealth is drought,
There to love you well,
Even where shadow that gives no shade Lies dark as obsidian strewn
There to love you still,
And now to love in alarm and delight Seeing the little stone in the field Tremble
and soar to your meaning alive Alive in the top of the sky,
And to love you more as a ravish of light Feasts on the literal and the revealed
Leaving only of truth the passionate skull Small and perfect where it fell.