Haze-lazy languor envelopes late-summer’s afternoon
The air is steeped with stippled blips of August
cricket-tune
The flag droops, limpid; like the dog’s tongue where the rippling
heat
Chases both breeze and straggler from the sidewalk and the
street
The bloom wilts and the worker wishes it was five ‘o clock
The blue wave flattens in monotonous laps against the dock
The shade, a poor man’s palace, begs for iced bev’rage and
books
And a sudden vacation from Duty’s most stringent looks
The morning is a steamboat chugging out across the bay
Beneath the yellow-cello-sun that strums a mellow lay
Toward twilight, a harbor blurred by sweat-anointed brow
And winter is a dreamland on a dear and distant prow
The locust buzzes in the silver-poplar citadel
The catfish lolls beneath the bridge where Johnnie’s fish-hook
fell
The garden is a desert, deserted by hoe and spade
On these, the lazy, hazy days of August lemonade
© Janet Martin
Okay, so anyone with a garden knows that August days are not lazy, but we snatch mini-vacations when we can...a glass of lemonade in the shade, a quick look into a poetry book
and such-like:)
