Maybe This Is Eternity

Dead heat of July.

Corn fields knee high
by the 4th. Now they
tower like the World
Trade Center over
ant hills.

Thunderheads build.
They threaten. Feel
sprinkles of rain in
the middle of a work
day. Thunderheads
roll over the plains.
They threaten. But
they only pretend.

Bright sun overhead.
Weeks of bright sun.
Now habit, we squint
our eyes, and think
nothing of it.

Dead heat of July
is Summer’s ritual.
Almost like walking
barefoot on hot coals.
Wish for rain but none
falls. December’s cool
breath rests in a forgotten
graveyard along with
our memories of it.

Weak winds grab dust
and toss it around like
a child throwing sand
in a sandbox. Humid
winds of the South, we
want the cool winds
from the North.

My eyes are dry
in the dead heat
of July. Tired of
squinting but I’d
trade it for nothing.
Life on the plains
rusts to an eerily
grinding halt, a
familiar sound.

Maybe this is eternity.
And some say to
themselves: this isn’t
so bad after all


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