Your day, a gray-flat stratus of a sky,

runs on humidity and sogs the mind

with melted ice cream, watermelon rind,

as uninspired summer hobbles by.

The afternoon will settle, like a fly

on honey, six legs stuck in disrepair.

Though thunderstorming evenings clear the air,

ennui is moderate, not hot and dry.

The day collects with dew upon a glass,

and tracks in rivulets to table’s top,

but life’s not uneventful as it seems.

Though clouds will rumble on as hours pass,

its manufacture never deigns to stop;

the day becomes the engine of our dreams.

09/04/2003

Author's Note: Honorable Mention, Rhyming Poetry category, Writer's Digest 2004 Annual Writing Competition, first published in The Lyric, 2010.

Posted on 09/04/2003
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