I sit beneath the tree
As the breeze blows stale
Infusing sweat in every breath
Stealing the air and turning it wet
Almost too thick to breathe
No birds fly and nothing crawls
Ice melts at the thought of entering my glass
Yet, there you are
Doing things men do
Tending and fixing and mowing
Skin too sticky to touch
The outdoors melts to your flesh
Slow roasted and juices flowing
There you remain
Doing what needs doing
As I, too melted to move
Sit beneath the tree