The speaker begins by noticing that April is already gone and summer feels like a kind of second beginning—a season made only of the present. With the plow stored away and the land still, there is no reason to think of past or future. Everything narrows to the slow, brilliant blossoming of summer. The mood is suspended and almost hypnotic, as if time itself has stopped. The plow put away and the land still suggest rest, but also a kind of suspended life, cut off from effort and memory.
Only later does a furrowed brow appear, looking back and understanding how harsh spring had been. That reflection brings a shift toward loneliness and endings: a scarecrow stares down at the field, and eventually snowfall covers both the scarecrow and the land. Summer’s heavy stillness gives way to winter’s blanketing quiet. The overall feeling is meditative and a little melancholy—caught between the ease of forgetting and the slower knowledge that every season passes.