High Summer

THERE is no escape
From the swamp honeysuckle and wild grape.
Whatever powers may daunt you,
Those splay leaves and witch’d odors still will haunt you.
Forgotten, they endure in the unknown,
Fragile, concealed, outlasting marble-stone.
Though labor and anxiety obsess,
The ghostly wilderness
Still lurks behind,
Biding its time to overrun the mind.
And men troubled by penitence or grief
Find out the lost divine in fragrance or a leaf.