It creeps up the island chain like a vine
every year reaching for the same spot
and covering us with rolling sheets,
sometimes as wide as any salary commute,
other times as localized as a cartoon,
grey giving rise to thick green growth
before giving up the ghost to cicadas
and the noisy dawning summer to follow,
and with it the fuzzy oppressive airs
that will linger well past their welcome;
seaside, shade, nightfall offer no respite,
only scant clothing and ac and cool water,
even then barely enough to suffice,
but in progression rebirth stakes a claim,
you’ll mark the first of many circles
as the globe tilts its hat northward
and the shadows creep back across the road.
(dtn)
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