-This poem reflects on the charged stillness before a summer storm, when heat, pressure, and waiting gather into a palpable sense of coming release.
The whole yard waits without a breeze,
the trees hold still against the sky,
and even birds seem less inclined,
to break the heat with any song.
The light has thickened into weight,
a pressure laid on roof and field,
while somewhere past the garden rows,
the clouds begin to gather shape.
No rain has touched the dust just yet,
no thunder crossed the window glass,
but all the day leans toward release,
as if the air itself can feel it.
So much of summer lives in this,
the hour before the world gives way,
when stillness is not peace, but charge,
and waiting has its own bright force.