The day when I wake,
When the night before was winters’s first rain
And the 9 o’clock I rise to
Is summer’s last fight of bloom,

It is the best day. It is an abeyance
To the war of the sun-juncture,
Where the day is enveloped, still.

The needles on the ground glaze with moisture, imbue
Brightly.

With the new fur coat buttoned up, adjusted
In its fit, that father got me for winter’s settlement and treaty with summer,
I leave the wooden foxhole.

The coat is my cuirass. I see the needle-blanket
Pitched over the true-and-true Earth-clay.
Cuirass fastened, I do a slide down the orange slope.

I do not get wet, for the coat is impenetrable,
But the aroma is smeared on me;
The invisible bedewing war stitched into it forever.