August 1427: Abundance Poem by Cole Swensen

Item: this year:
and made so beautiful August that it made never of the age of
man alive
Comme (as) dit (is) est (said):
but in that little hour did God labor
and how it is appert = eyes
the color of wheat, the wheel
holding still as when anything thrown straight up, stops,
hangs, free of its own weight, just for a second, split

can enter. Wealth of sudden fruit, call me
whatever you want.