Five p.m. On a summer day
The heat is oppressive
The hot breeze keeps
Beyond our reach the storm away
A cold shower will have to wait
As only scalding water
Escapes from the taps
Idle afternoon spent
In the slow swing of the hammock
The curtains billow
To the wind tempo
No bird is chirping
Why would they
Like us they wait
The promised change
Searching the sky for the heavy cumulus
Finding it occupied by the high striated Cyrus
Which will only deliver a turning and tossing night
On the bed covers
With no rest whatsoever
A murmur is heard
Summer , summer.
Lucette C. Bailliet
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