46 Degrees Celsius Poem by rosalinda flores rosevoc

46 Degrees Celsius

It is the month of flowers,
summer past the cruelest month.
Brightly the sun shines, but the streets are empty
Trees are cut, banished; new edifices sprouting.
Flowers are supposed to bloom,
gardens must be filled with colors.
It is summer now, three days ago, it was 46 degrees Celsius.
It is almost sauna in our homes.
We need to hydrate, dip in a firetruck.
I'm licking the drops of my sweat like salt.
I am gawking at the clouds, the drawings in the sky
their shades and shadows, how they cast into new forms.
Flores de Mayo is the pinnacle of this month
It reminds me of my mother's golden bracelet, one I dropped in the procession
I can see the small wide flowers that do not stop blooming, its petite petals thriving
beside the nostalgia of Chanel #5, my Dad's favorite bloom.
It is the month of flowers, we need to grow fragrances,
color gardens, till the soil, and one small citrus perhaps.
Beat the heat, the Queen rises in the skies
Our Lady of Beautiful Love lords over cold and heat.