The dusty paths meander slow,
almost hidden in a haze
of heat that rises to bestow,
a beating burning burnished blaze.
The trees reach up to touch the sky,
thirsting for the slightest drop
of rain the clouds will one day cry,
to feed the annual summer crop.
The listless grasses turn to hay,
awaiting a brand new rebirth;
A promise to return one day,
to the hearth of Mother Earth.
The air is heavy with expectation,
Sultry, still, in anticipation...
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Comments about this poem (Sultry Summers by Roann Mendriq )
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