a stand-still summer

Summer is standing still
on a bed of dry grass and dry leaves
and dry eyes.
And I, eyes shut against summer sun,
sleep in a constancy of orange heat.
Forgotten are the cries of winter
and difference. In summer,
there is nothing to move another
to tears or otherwise.
So I stand still in a summer with no ending,
dazing in a series of days in increasing indifference
a world tilting away into a too-long drought
A rotting orange.

But it is in this summer still as a fallen dream
and on this bed of dry grass and dry leaves
Where you rise to stand, demanding
"Why are we standing, when it is so still in summer?

"A drought is but a warm welcome to a brother rain
and oranges are sweetest when ripe
and when we stand upright it is sweetest, too,
to fall
From summer into a whirling bed of leaves
made warm and tender with orange kisses and warm sheets
Come, fall--

Just because summer is still
does not mean that we are still
asleep when we awake."

But I wake and I look and I discover
that the world is still standing
(then I say to myself, in slow understanding)
Even though I and others fall,
"Summer is standing, still."