Zenith.
Everything is full to bursting.
The trees cannot hold one more leaf
and the air is so thick
I swim through it
like molasses.
Stillness. Heat. Swelter.
Life is slow and ripe,
the grass is high and the corn is higher.
Everything tender or fragile
long ago disappeared;
now stands the heartier thistle
and sage
and goat weed.
To get even a small breath of cool air,
I rise at dawn and sit in the morning,
the leaves rustling in the cottonwood
with a slight breeze.
But even the earliest eastern rays are strong,
they portend scorching hours ahead.
I try to remember February, when I couldn’t imagine
ever feeling warm again.
Now, at the peak of summer,
I can’t remember what cold felt like.
And my thoughts are bulbous
and heavy and ripe,
like summer squash which
feels a lot heavier than it looks…
yet I can’t hold these ideas;
the shimmering white hot sun
makes them dissolve,
running like water through my fingers
before I can make sense of them.
So I find some shade
and take a bite
and let them ease down my throat
like bitterroot
like honey.
