52/194: Swelterer

[rejectomorph]

It was only supposed to get up to 103 here Saturday, but it topped out at fecking 108! Shortly after sunset I went out to check the mailbox, and nearly fainted on opening the door. It was still over 100, and I had splurged on air conditioning (a mere 80 degrees indoors) so the contrast was intense. After the 200-some feet round trip, I collapsed and stayed limp for half an hour. I didn't get around to dinner until after midnight. It's still not cool enough outside to open the windows and turn on the fan, but as soon as it is I'm doing it and going to bed. After yesterday's false weather report I'm gun shy about today's. It's, predicted to be 101, but I won't hold my breath. If I even can in fact breathe at all.

Somebody on another web site posted a fragment of an Emily Dickinson poem I had somehow missed for all these decades, so I had to hunt it down. Here it is so you won't.



Sunday Verse

Untitled

, of course, being

by Emily Dickinson


These are the days when Birds come back –
A very few – a Bird or two,
To take a final look –

These are the days when skies resume
The old – old sophistries of June –
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And swiftly thro' the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf –

Oh Sacrament of summer days!
Oh last Communion in the Haze –
Permit a Child to join –

Thy sacred emblems to partake –
Thy consecrated bread to take –
And thine immortal wine –