Down south, summer swells into a burden,
its heat gathering into thunderstorms
hanging over the sandhills. Sunshine
weighs on the boughs of trees, like bronze.

Lilies and hollyhocks wilt in the garden,
giving up the ghost of the promise of spring.
Only the vines still shoot and hang on now,
choking loblollies and oaks with their merciless thorns.

A hot, dry sun rides up to the top of the sky,
baking the clay to the hardness of brick.
Cornstalks die into brittle straw,
kicking around with the dust and sticks.

Shadowless sunshine seems heavier and heavier
with each step that you take across the field,
until you give up what you set out for
and turn back for the shade of the trees.