Hand in Hand With Humidity

of pretty much every year, here
in the Piedmont of Georgia. Summer heat a reluctant
possum grudgingly winding its way down
Highland Avenue, turning right on South Lumpkin
and heading south out of town, while tugging
the paw of its balking younger sister,
High Humidity.

I’m still not sure how the last day of August
severs the umbilical cord of summer, and in
the process whelps autumn. Physics provides
instruction—Sol’s annual lap, and an Earth
whose views are now slightly tilted.

But the striated wind—changing state to liquid,
and swirling away remnants of the month,
is my grinning dance partner. We sway
and twist, finally shedding the salt-demons
of summer.