Summer

Yes, I know it is spring, at least here in San Francisco, but I yearn for summer.

Summer
 
Blistering heat, humidity sparing
no one, steals my breath,
and the air conditioner hums
my tune as I sit in front
of it, air spraying cool sunshine,
on overexposed pores.

The sweat is now dissipating
and my brother scowls.
because I am absorbing
pure delicious coolness
while he sits and sputters:
"Move out of the way!
We all need to cool off!"

So I step aside looking outdoors,
noticing the hyacinth. She doesn't appear
particularly flustered by unbearable
salty heat. In fact, she radiates, smiling
at me: flirting, purring, beckoning
me to join them outside,
but I am too smart to listen
to the coo of some flattering flower.
I stay inside, lying on my back
behind the couch, just under this slice
of frosty Heaven. And I hope
that tomorrow brings wealthy thunderstorms
glowering their disapproval
of that monstrous citrus sun,
that has dominated now for days on end
making itself felt, known, forgiving
nothing.

But I yearn now for the rain that will pour,
weeping in sheer delight, while we meager
mortals thrill, rejoice
in a cool day, just one cool day.

(C) 2010, Michael Wayne Holland