Convolvulus

On how Summer has a cutting edge. Convolvulus The short spark of a Summer sun Throws a whip of a blaze at me As if I were an Autumn leaf Or a plum tree Ripening in the burning red blood of it. . . . As with fish, the maggots Have eaten the plums As the mosquitoes bite me, just As the convolvulus strangles The red roses blooming. Bloom on my rose friends Your time is almost done My secateurs are awaiting Patiently.