Some put up jam from generous orchards, some can cullings of hills' & furrows' fluency. I net and fold away shadows of honeysuckle down the wall, the moon's paling pond lilies, lilies' on warmed waters, the moth's against a sweating screen, a thistle's on wild green, the last firefly's over stones wild fennel scents, the Monarch's drifting its silken song . . . On snow, ice, how I will spread saved summer, singing.