A hundred and seventeen by day Cools to ninety overnight No relief but the shower stall. Humidity at sixty-five Mixed with sweat for a nasty soup. Cold water from the tap is warm. The shade no cooler than the sun. Trapped in Air Conditioned caves, It’s hunker down and find a way To forge a path though ninety days.
Why does anybody even try To live in this forsaken place.
Bcause it’s lovely in the Winter. The gorgeous skies are like no other With clouds that tumble into billows Of fantastic size and shape. The Craggy mountains circle round In jagged homage to the sky, And sunrise is excelled by none. In March wildflowers explode in bloom. Along the streets and in the fields Where little bunnies hide in bushes. And tiny lizards scurry by. The air is clean and brisk and new And snowbirds make their yearly trek Infusing new and different views.
That’s the Yang to scorching Yin That keeps us here, content to be. ljm
Making it through the first summer of our new home state. Barely.