sunday afternoon

the sultry summer air hangs low and close

while the cottonwood down lazes toward the grass

the bees are at the milkweed

buzzing into the pale purple blooms

with an industry that makes me sweat just to watch them

clouds of grim and gauzy grey have gathered,

threatening, since morning

but no cannonade of thunder sounds relief

now the winds roars through the trees

and forty-foot giants sway and shake

their leafy arms at the capricious sky

as twigs snap and go flying

but still the clouds hold, the humidity stagnant

despite the clamor and the rush

and still i wait for thunder —

but no thunder comes