-This poem reflects on a fan in the window as a humble source of relief during high summer, where ordinary machinery becomes part of the season’s daily endurance.
It turns with one unending hum,
drawing what air it can through screen,
while curtains lift and fall a little,
in the slow breath of afternoon.
The room stays dim against the glare,
the blinds half closed to hold the cool,
and every chair, and table, and wall,
seems waiting with the heat outside.
No storm has come to break the day,
no shade can move the sun away,
just this small engine, steady, plain,
keeping a little mercy in the house.
So much of summer lives by this,
not grandeur, but relief made simple,
the modest grace of moving air,
when high heat leans against the glass.