I wrote this poem in response to a prompt from my friend Brian Miller, asked for a poem about the sun or heat, or using them as a metaphor. Once again, because my imagination and I can never make a defiinite decision, I did all of the above. Is it hot in here or is it just me?
As I drive this prism of roadway,
the blacktop blurs,
bending both light and air,
returning last night’s rain
to the hazy skies.
Already, the blistering sun glows hot,
a golden jewel against a blood-red dawn.
The fields wear their late-Spring coverlet,
a low-napped living emerald,
seasoned with billions of glistening chips
of hot June morning.
I’m reminded at every turn,
except the one I should make,
of leaving her bed, her covers of green,
where I kissed goodbye
the diamond dewdrops that sparkled
above her lips, awakening me
to another steamy sunrise.