Summer Walks in Georgia
Cicada-song scratches through
the hot butter-thick air.
I wade in the heat-haze
that pools on cracked asphalt,
sticks to my bare legs.
No breath in the pine needles.
No passing cars
to disturb the haze-moat
I pull my feet through.
Can't I wrap my fingers
around the palpable humidity,
climb it like a rope-ladder
up and beyond the Sun?
No.
I can only continue
down the cracked road
with faded yellow lines,
where all is heat and silence
and insect-song.
the hot butter-thick air.
I wade in the heat-haze
that pools on cracked asphalt,
sticks to my bare legs.
No breath in the pine needles.
No passing cars
to disturb the haze-moat
I pull my feet through.
Can't I wrap my fingers
around the palpable humidity,
climb it like a rope-ladder
up and beyond the Sun?
No.
I can only continue
down the cracked road
with faded yellow lines,
where all is heat and silence
and insect-song.
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