August

The drone of fans awakes you from your sleep And light sneaks in around your windowsill. The chill of night the new day will not keep, Yet work must start where all the blades are still. You venture out amidst the heated world Which laughs at your discomfort with a bray, And still you work with humid winds unfurled, For Phaeton drove the chariot today. The air is dense, your clothes too damp to touch, With no position comes any relief. You hate the Sun which flora love so much; The star which seeds all life heralds your grief. Yet, as your shoulders burn from heaven’s Gold, You know you’d rather melt than face the cold.