Inclemency Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

It's like in summer,
when your throat is dry
your lips draw tight,
your lungs refuse the air,
it's all you think about.
You dread the sky.
Your ears are singed.
Your lids can't shield the glare.
Just so
when traveling in a foreign land
you find yourself
seem stupid, lost, alone,
because to eat or shop
or understand directions
all you do is shrug and groan.
Oppressive, daunting, endless,
feeling trapped within
an age-old nightmare circumstance,
to cope seems futile,
let alone adapt.
But, oh that moment when,
by gust or glance,
in curse or whisper,
whether slurred or sung
that soothing breeze!
You hear your native tongue.