The hot, still air stifles all conversation,
Save the droning ad for winter outfits—
Odd to think about snow boots and parkas
When the sun beats down, melting the farm house.
Shimmers of molten air invade the shadows
Missed by the sun’s blinding will.
Grandpa sleeps, propped up in his chair,
The cat purring weakly, its fur matted and scorching.
I can take the stillness, the burning silence,
The creeping, sweating boredom, no longer.
Nothing shifts when I rise from my sticky chair,
Except the cat which glares at me with glinting suns.
No breeze will touch this farm today, but I stand
And gaze at the cows dancing in the heat.
My shirt pastes to my back…some fires are hotter…
And I thank God for the hope of salvation.
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