A Year of Poems – Day 251

These are the halcyon days of summer,
the time between the storms and reaping heat.
Cherry clouds form, ripe with fresh spitting pits
which blow with playful breezes ’bout the bay
of bright inflated plastic plied with wet
plumes of the liquid peacock splayed on grass
in ridiculous grandeur like pages
bent like backs, bending to tell rambling tales
told by aged lips in the cool summer heat,
as they bend, we all bend to a hot fall,
but not while the watermelon plumpens,
growing this summer on a clear, wet day
like a nesting bird grows tall on her perch
puffed at her incubating foliage.

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