Summer Night

Summer night presses close
the garden blooms,
The twilight is a sound

Of all these soft, low things,
While cicada soar and praise
the warm scent

rising up with the light;
Between profusing vases
lies all that is alive.

And wonder dreams awake,
where dreams don’t miss a beat
with their currents lapping near.

—Lola Ridge

• Lola Ridge