The swelter starts its telltale spreading out,
like Sherman marching salty seaward—pores
between my shoulder blades, each one a spout
for instinct’s cooling quest. My body’s chores
include the armpits drooling. Nose abhors
the spent heat pooling. Mouth regrets what’s lost—
the precious moisture angels steal. What soars?
My wish for winter’s mirth, for snowballs tossed.
For heat confined to mugs and stoves, I’d kiss the frost!
The above poem is a Spenserian stanza. For another such poem, try Mars Over Dunsinane.
For some tips on how to get more out of poetry, try this post: For the Poet. Love the Poem.
Image by geralt on Pixabay.