Friday, July 1, 2011
In honor of the long, hot summer that lies ahead of me, here in Arizona, I thought I'd share a poem I wrote last year during the monotonous days of sweltering, unending heat.
When most of the USA gets ready to celebrate the Fourth of July with picnics and barbecues, I usually hibernate to the dark cool places and ride out the summer thinking about the mountains and forests, rain and scary movies.
It's Not Even Eight AM
It's not even eight am,
Opening the door to my backyard
I am assaulted by a wave of hot air,
Like a blast furnace.
Capable of turning solid metal
Into molten liquid,
Incinerating human flesh.
Yet the hummingbird still
Visits the feeder,
The cactus are thriving,
The mesquite tree remains
A soft yellow green.
Nothing has gone up in flames
But my illusions-
That I will ever adapt to my environment.
All this and it's not even eight am.
Word of the Day: wanderlust. (noun) a strong longing for or impulse towards wandering.