That time of year following spring–
hot, dusty, sweaty; make-up running
down ladies’ faces.
Time to complain about the weather
and how you wish it would cool off.
The shade of a tree is welcome
after a long walk in the sun.
Seeds ripening, shooting forth,
okra stalks standing tall.
Okra must be picked, even when
you don’t want any more okra.
You’ve had fried okra, boiled okra,
and fried okra again until it begins to
taste flat. The old swimming hole,
children laughing. Summer.
© 2013 Freeda Baker Nichols
Photo credit: Wikipedia