There it is out the window- in the sunlight, the moment when the heat slogs
in with humid tension and you know that the summer has gone to the dogs
sweat runs down your cheeks and drips off the tip of your poignant nose
the coolness of shade shrinks away from where ever you try to stand
as the memory of rain shrivels away like cellophane crisp upon the sand.
Then the clouds pull together as if to declare that they still can unite
bands of lightning spark and flash between the edges in and out of sight
the skies grow dark with the promise that there might be a gentle fall of rain
thunder pounds in drum beat precision cracks and snaps shattered glass
but no water drops come- just the sound and fury, nothing comes to pass.
These are the long hot days when a little bit of water would go a long way
to cooling the mad passions that rise up and tend to go wildly astray
where everything is so dry that all you can think of is finding a garden hose
spraying freedom to act like the child that you remember somewhere within
to dance upon the grasses, to run, to slip, to slip one more time again.
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