Georgia Summer

This is the spider lily’s slumberous hour, The gold lantanas’ on the broken fence; The cricket’s bronze siesta. The cockscomb flower Withers and droops in carmine opulence. Cape jasmines, nodding, shift the last red dust A wagon made, and whiten once again; Spreading hot wings, a sparrow eyes the west, Scorning its broken promises of rain. A yellow jacket rises now and falls In failing rhythms where the heat drifts clear Over a motionless sea of cotton bolls Ripening on leaves no single wind has stirred. Red cannas’ listless tongues hang on the air, Speechless, even, for a scarlet word.