Last summer the meadow foundered
under the blazed stare of the sun.
Goldenrod browned, shriveled
and listed like masts in a dry marina —
no sails, no wind, no water.
All summer long I hardly
dipped my toe into that dusty font —
the whole sanctuary abandoned
by God, bird and woman.
But what Nature ruins, Nature can
repair, having the keys. Today She
overturns her silver box,
gliding rain into all her little locks.