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.