The Weight of the Air
A News Response Poem
The sun, a fiery eye, stares down, no blinking. Concrete exhales yesterday’s spent heat. Humidity, a hand at our throats. And it’s come so soon, this heavy breath of summer, before we've stretched our limbs to meet it. We're all breathing the same stewed air, the kind that makes you wonder if the other side of the planet is cooking too, in a clash of wills, eyes pointing our way, questioning, waiting. Fingers twitch, tempers thin as old lace, a world on edge, and the pavement burns. We listen for a voice, a sign, a hand to turn the dial down. No cool wind to smooth the ruffled edges. Just this thick, hot quiet. And the hum of a world waiting for a storm that might not be rain. We beg the breathless sky, carefully watching our neighbors pleading for relief, for calm. But the heat holds fast, and in our own thirst, we must learn to dig for the well.
And the summer solstice to remind us that the sun-drench sky is fierce and lively!
My word for this, Suzanna is...breathtaking.