I think I finished a new poem today. Now I plan to work on putting an image with it to get the visual feel of the words. For now, here is the beginning of July Sunday:
It is one-hundred-and-two and we have nothing to do.
The heat pales a blue sky. The drought saps
all that was green.
Birds flock to the feeders and bathe in their bath.
A dozen varieties at various times fly in and fly out
as we lazily count.
One-hundred-and-one degrees and we stroll to the front as
the porch swing squeaks coming forth and going back--
my head on a pillow, my legs on his lap.
We read poetry for we have nothing to do.
I read Collins' Shoveling Snow with
Buddha and we smile and sip
cool lime water. As the ice melts he reads Seibles'
The Ballad of Sadie Lababe, 'Cause Sadie moved like water poured—
It is one-hundred degrees--a sultry move into evening. We
slip inside and having nothing else to do, we slice a baguette,
aged Gouda, cucumber, tomato and a sweet Colorado peach.
(to be continued)