there is no wistful wind,
nor springtime cherries
summer has tanned us into
fistful of sultry moments
the mind refuses to lift
from stupor, somewhere else
in this country, you will hear
of turbulent, boisterous floods
making enough clamour to awaken
sensibilities of the fourth estate
floods are meant for the starved
it is only us in our frigid
arid zones, who complain plaintively
of the heat; and sing dirges on it.