Here's another poem submitted here for the sake of timeliness and not for the fact of its doneness. You see, I would rather come off as aware than I would as prepared.
It comes early and leaves late.
Each year we forget, stunned
By the oppression of the sun.
As Noah’s flood—from the sky,
from the ground, all at once—
The inundation of fire.
And yet somehow we forget the rivering sweat, the wavering asphalt, the lolling
Tongues of dogs.
It’s the burden we bear
To our swimming pools,
The yoke of our wet towels
Coming home; we slap mosquitoes, cussing
A storm, shaming grave-drowned mothers.
Fireflies elude the children,
High into the maple,
Down into the ditch.
Down where the black-bags
Of dry-bone leaves loiter, forsaken
By the city-trucks. Summer, summer, summer . . .
Fanning ourselves with yard-sale fliers,
We hum our praises
As we tend to do in the face
Of our oppressions, of our God himself—
His spirit descending like the gloaming-bats
To intercept the mosquitoes
And, our annual dread,
To alight in glory on our heads.