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It's a hot night in July,
you and I both know it.
No place to go but out,
into the night of the poet.
The breeze in the trees,
is stilled to a stifle,
as we breathe the thick air,
and not tarry or trifle.
It wasn't planned,
but fireworks were banned,
it was much too hot,
and way too dry.
So we float on the stillness,
of a heat wave of desire,
just alone in the dark,
with the light of our own kind of fire.
On the grassy sleeve,
of a Midsummer's eve,
we roll in the dew,
of true believe.
Where the stars implode,
and we lighten our load,
to the tune of the
Star-Spangled Banner.
In the fireflies' light,
our love shines bright,
near the end of a,
firecracker night.
Copyright 2011 © Ronald W. Hull
7/1/11
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Regis
Reminds me of sultry nights in Georgia
Happy 4th
Peter
Anna