Swelter

From Wiki-commons

If one
lives here one knows
the constant summer heat.
March sprouts each time with hope pale green;
the grass awakes before the sun begins to bake
the blades that switch to white, a white that shades at dark
to gray then chars by hours and degrees to deepest black.
Each day the shadows ink the fields, the homes, the dreams
as buildings block the white hot blaze that cooks
the air and fills one's lungs with lust
for winter frost, for snow —
to numb, to cool
one's soul.

A mathematical poem in iambic feet starting with one and
advancing to seven feet and then retreating from six feet to one in
answer to Tony Maude's challenge today at d'Versepoets
where we're making poetry count today!

© Gay Reiser Cannon * 8/15/2013 * All Rights Reserved