The Summer Trees
 
The copper sun that scalds the april boughs 
Of summer, from the noon's burst cauldron, there, 
In concentrates of fury, hardly knows 
The pertinence of patience the trees bear, 
 
Who, with their metal branches, scour the air 
For rumors of impending May to flood 
Their thobbing thirst, or, to defy despair 
The stirring breeze makes vocable and loud. 
 
All summer long the bare trees stand and wait 
While roots probe deepest for a hoard of silt 
And seepage -- till, silver in the sky, the late 
Rains pour at last, hard where the treetops tilt. 

--Carlos A. Angeles