Days I arise when a night nymph or
disturbing dream muddies the rivers
of waking consciousness. My words become
woven into tangled taunts like green vines
silently spreading on my walking path;
a wet woolen heaviness keeps my spirit
from soaring. Only the dragonfly seems
unfettered by bold rays of the mid-August sun.
Summer knows about muddling moods;
the cicadas insistent wing flicks seem
to slow into a lulling rhythm; only leaves
hanging out on a limb shiver with delight
when an unseen giant releases a single
puff of satisfaction – or frustration.
I’ve learned a lot about silence and
patience in times of oppressive heat.
Rocking and remembering my childhood,
we knew no other kind of summer day.
A short drive from home to the beach
in Aunt Francis’ 1950’s Ford station wagon,
stuck in the single lane of traffic, steam rising
from under the hood, pavement shimmering
with puddles of rays; “hot enough to
fry an egg on”, that’s what we would say