The air is still and hot, my breathing shallow, I hate this weather.
It makes singing difficult, when the air brings on that thickening:
Motes of pollen squeeze my alveoli; even speech is raw.
I'm sprawled on the sheet: there's nothing else to do.
The birds have stopped, disconsolate on window ledges, beaks agape:
They're waiting for the cool, blue dusk to ease their stupor,
Much good may it do them; time has never dragged so slow.
I wish you'd bring me a breath of Autumn when you come.
Its air is gold and sweet, like linctus—always in a rainstorm,
That's when my sung notes ring most true, and I connect with you.
Tan Morgan
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sorrel-s-song/
