We lay there side by side in the swampy heat.
It was like the riverbed had vaporized sending the silt to bury us alive.
‘I think we’re dead.’
‘I know but my mom said we couldn’t open the windows.’
Dodging carpet wrinkles, we snuck down the long hall where a box fan stirred the heat.
Putting our heads around the corner we could hear the air conditioning unit but couldn’t feel it.
Only the smell of spent freon and the deafening noise were clues that it was working.
We went back to bed side by side, itching our salty limbs
Tossing and turning through a long summer night.
remembering the humidity of a summer night when i was a teenager
At the edges of a season the snow falls thick and fast.
Filling in potholes, saving gas in the fishtail and glide.
Fluff melts in to your skin soaking cuffs, backs of sweaters.
The north wind mingles with the west, nudging along instead of biting.
At the edges of the season a snowstorm is fun
The reminder we need to enjoy what we have.
There is no teeth gnashing, clothes rending despair of the icy deep winter.
Up to your knees in fluff, no ice to break through.
It is the edge of the season with the muffled sounds
Waves of curled snow banks in fields preparing to shake themselves awake.
Well water tastes the sweeter for the melt deep below and
I can feel the sap beginning to flow.
With the peeling back of the calendar years, liberal peppering of children
There should be an accumulation, at least a shovel full but
I throw up my hands, having no advice to give.
In the nights up with an ill child I still stare out the windows
Cradle them in my arms, mingling our tears.
How did I know she was that sick those three years ago? I didn’t.
Something in my nose, my throat, muscles in my legs alerted me.
Hysteria erodes credibility but inertia has the power to make fools of us all.
Shut out the cacophony of fear, dig deep in to your gut,
Press your ear to the ground and listen for the pulse of your truth.