This Summer Day

I'm almost afraid to mention the weather, for fear of bringing an abrupt shift of gears ... from the pleasant temperatures we've had recently ... and are still enjoying in Ohio ... to those days which bring visions of eggs frying on the sidewalk.

I haven't looked up the birth date of today's poem, but I'm sure it was written back in the days when my writing was done in an attic space ... a great portion of the house where there was always a feeling of quiet ... away from the phones and other distractions.

It was a beautiful nook ... even had a view of the city ... but it was subject to temperature extremes ... HOT in the summer ... and finger-numbing COLD in the winter.

Got the scene?

I may have forgotten the date on which today's poem was written ... but I do recall sitting there barefoot at the keyboard as I wrote.

The poem:

THIS SUMMER DAY

It's five-thirty in the morning,
and in a nearby yard a dog
is barking for his breakfast.

A cardinal serenades
the dew-draped maple,
an unidentified singer
in a neighboring tree
provides counterpoint,
and I'm sitting barefoot,
ready for the steam.

A captive fan bestows
an artificial breeze,
one for me to remember
as the temperatures
and humidity blast off.

I may have to dig up
memories of last winter,
stored in the root cellar
of my mind for such a day.

Even the crows are out,
cawing: "Hot, hot, HOT!"
© 1995
(originally published in The Christian Science Monitor)

Today's word: hot