There is a dampening of the senses now
The heat’s hefty weight, pulling liquid from my bones
The drip of a salty drop running down my spine
I’m clammy to the core
Laden down, waiting to evaporate.
I long for the cool brushes of an Autumn wind
For the gentle pummeling of leaves at my door
For my weary senses to dance in orange flame
To feel like I’m part of the game.
Not this. Not this. Not this.
There is nothing of me here
In scorched earth and dizzying mirage
But soon my friends I will hear the call
Of my kindred season