Summer hot

 

Summer hot has come.

The earth begins to bake.

The sky is bright blue,

the clouds puffed up

and far between.

The sun is behind it all,

or else above it all,

depending on one’s perspective.

A fusion fire so far away,

the blazing radiant heat

barely trickles out

as far as our little spot.

Yet I walk on mostly frying pan sidewalks,

the trees left distilling chlorophyll in sun 

shade some of me.

I will have to pour down

rivers of ice water to replenish

all that has transpired.

Watchful vultures circle on updrafts -

invisible smoke and mirrors.

The hot wind blows in my ears.

The burning sun is shattered

into sparks and shards

against the reflecting water glass

and is not quenched.

I squint.

But my skin is indeed the organ

of receptivity -

summer hot licks my salt.

I will not quarrel if it is

the heat or the humidity.

But I will bow down my head,

my body wilting,

and pray for the night to come.

And then I will raise my head again

to welcome the summer hot day.

 

If you wait

  

If you wait for her –

so you wait –

not like it’s a date.

It’s the prelude to the prom;

the dance precedes the romance.

It’s too soon

in June, for the

the cicadas to croon.

The air too still

for the porch swing

to sing.

The light fades,

a star appears

and Mars nears

to keep you company.

And still she does not ascend.

It’s not for nothing

do you wait.

Not for love nor money

will she hold you.

Nor will she scold you if

in your impatience

you turn and go back inside.

And then, there she is,

not a minute

not a second too soon.

And the moment is not

a heartbeat too late.

Oh, so aged

and full of body she is,

yellowed and deliberate of pace.

But her face is for this -

alone, or perhaps

with a human kiss.

Her light reflects blue-white

as she arcs higher and higher.

She surely cares not

for you alone.

But if you wait for her,

surely she cares.

Backyard thoughts

Night time.

It’s late

or very early.

Forgotten shirts hang,

arms down,

dampening again.

Katydid

or katydidn’t.

The first cat I ever loved

is buried under that gray stone.

Who can speak of love

at a time like this?

Black night

or city fire

reflected on the underside

of scattered clouds.

All of you

who I have loved

or who have touched me

are with me here

or I am alone.

I crush my dampening shirts

in my arms.