As the heavy, humid clouds press down,
The heat lightning skips across the skies.
The frogs and cicadas have a muted sound,
And the still air stifles the fire-flies.
It’s a sultry, southern summer night,
No moon shines, but the stars are drinking.
It’s the kind of eve where everyone’s too tired to fight,
And the thoughts are weighted by too much thinking.
The steamy air seems thick with care,
Like breathing through a warm, damp sponge.
Above the clouds, I know it’s cold up there,
If I could clear my head – these thoughts expunge.
The air-conditioner has made me spoiled,
So I sit in the arctic, freezing as I write.
Still, inside me, the heaviness – perfectly coiled,
Unable to find release on a mid-July night.
~ C.L.R. ~ © 2007