-This poem reflects on a porch fan at midnight as a small mercy in high summer, where motion and hum make the heavy warmth of night easier to bear.
The fan turns slow above the chair,
its blades dividing heavy air,
while out beyond the screened dark,
the yard lies warm and deep with hush.
No breeze has found the house tonight,
the leaves stay still beyond the rail,
and every board, and post, and step,
keeps some faint memory of the day.
The hum goes on in patient loops,
a small made weather in the dark,
enough to move the curtain’s edge,
enough to make the stillness bearable.
So much of high summer asks this,
not rescue, only slight relief,
a little motion through the heat,
while midnight leans against the porch.