This Summer Day

I know ... it's not summer ... but I can dream, can't I? Or look ahead to the time when I'll have something other than cold, blustery weather to complain about.

Today's poem just came to mind again ... so here goes:

I haven't looked up the birth date of the poem, but I'm sure it was written back in the days when my writing was done in an attic space ... a great spot 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