Was it Just Last Week?

Ninety degrees,
the heat and humidity
are more than transcendental
though they flirt with knowing
of hell.

Apparitions rise
out of asphalt no longer scarred
by the tread of too many tires.
That viscous face oozes tar from its pores.
Relocation has its appeal.

The sun sizzles crisply
consuming the air.  Birds
that sang through the storm
are listless now, too parched
to whistle.

Twilight paints with lilac and purple,
Earth turns impressionist instead of precise.
Grandma’s old porch swing adds its squeak
to the squawk of crickets and frogs.
This must be paradise.

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