Here I am tended
by angels of patient grace
as I mend my ways.
Sleep is a lover
Who wants to take me away.
I’m not finished yet.
Climbing summer hill,
we all move slowly. Perhaps
there will be birds.
Fell down summer hill.
There were no birds, and I came
too late for supper.
It is the longest day.
Play music and ask the sun
to be merciful.
Lost on summer hill.
No old friends or new ones.
All the birds are mute.