In the season of the heat

that’s where you’ll find me

that is, at least until autumn gives way

to virginal whiteness or until whichever comes


In the heat that lasts the season

I don’t go underground to cool me off.

Instead, I stand in the torrent of the moments

loudly begging the season not to end.

In the heat of my season, the ground of my back

gives way to buttocks and I sit connected to earth,

connected to the tides, their ebb their flow making me flow.

I have no ebb.

In my season of the heat, the colors are rich, deep

but fleeting,

I am not deep rooted.

I am wild and the heat consumes me.

In my heat of the season,

a hurricane must come through.

Wild wetness     stinging rains

hot breath on my neck.

In my season of the heat

no holds are barred and no bars will hold me

no holds can touch me in this searing heat.


@junemoon 1996     [photo courtesy of Flickr photographer]