"She refused to be bored, chiefly because she wasn't boring." Zelda Fitzgerald

Friday, August 5, 2011

Poetry Friday: A Heat Wave Poem

Golden moment during our after-dinner swim the other night.

Happy Poetry Friday everyone! I hope you are all having a wonderful time wherever you are in this beauitful shining world. I am listening, all day now to the rattling buzz of cicadas and thinking fondly of sunflowers. (I will plant some next year!)

I am thinking about swimming to excess because we're headed off to the beach for the weekend. My poem today is perfect for a person who is a bit fixated on shore-life. I can think of very little else. So, enjoy this little glimpse of summer in my world and have a great weekend!

I will be back, re-charged and ready to conquor the world on Monday. Cape Cod, here we come!

August Remedy
When I was small we would end unbearably hot days
With boisterous runs to the perfect coolness of Lake Michigan.
I sit here this morning, sweating while sitting still and think
Of those childhood runs for the water, all of us flailing joyfully.
The sun is blazing through the open window, no breeze in sight,
I listen to the voices of our three boys, playing in the sprinkler
And I remember how I sat like this when I was nine or ten
Squinting in the sun, waiting for Papa's truck to crunch in the drive
How the house became a buzzing whirl of swimsuit searching
And six children slap, slap, slapped up the path to the minivan.
We are having a heat wave here in Connecticut and I watch
The wiggles radiating off the sidewalk and think of the big, wet ocean
Only minutes away from our house (if you have a minivan).
Almost Lake Michigan.
I miss the solace of knowing that when the car rolls in the drive
I'm headed for that cool, silver feeling when your head first slips under.
Survival sometimes depends on these notions
Our three sons slog into the house, tired of hose-play and too hot for tag.
We drip popsicles on the front stoop, and re-fill the ice-cube tray until
We peter out and sit languidly in front of the box fan.
I slowly fold a tower of clothes, they poke each other.
And so I dial, waiting for you to answer from your cool office, far away
And I tell you that tonight we need to stage a re-enactment,
A certain re-dancing of the steps I have been taught for these dog-days.
When you come home, we munch sandwiches standing up,
Dripping pickle juice down our wrists and on our bathing suits
Then our boys run: slap, slap, slap to the minivan, elbowing into seats
Even the baby jigging along behind, talking to himself as he goes.
And that is how I find myself, taking this flying run across the sand
Splashing into the water and drinking in that first shimmering plunk.
I pull the glittering cool into my very veins, sipping potent heat-remedy
And float like an otter, my grin lifting me skyward, along with my pink, boyant toes.

If you get the chance, stop on over at, A Year of Literacy Coaching, today's Poetry Friday host-blog and read through the other offerings, a summery smattering of everything.

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