She waits for a changing wind.
The heat, like a drug that renders her incapable of movement,
Leaves her thoughts muddled and smoky.
Her voice lost somewhere in the heavy air,
It falls to the ground unheard.
She wishes for a cooler breeze.
One to stir the words up
Off the dry grass of summer
And send them floating...
But still, the only sounds
Are the insistent cicadas,
And her own breath, in and out,
In harmony with the squeak
Of the porch swing.
- kjsmith
