CXXVI: The Seven Days of August: iii

I labor more, with much more vigor, now.

The Sun has baked the tundra off my gaze.

Whatever permafrost that froze my brow

is melted, after months of Sunny days.

So now, when I lay down to rest this frame,

it's used. Thoroughly exorcised of strength.

And not my own fine discipline's to blame,

but August's oven languishing at length.

Somehow, when all my sinews spend their sweat,

I want to do more works out in this world.

As if my sails are shriveled up when wet,

but, Sun-dried, billow in the wind unfurled.

Would that this switch were something I could flit,

instead of waiting for the Sun for it.