pm poetry

When August air
begins to press,
warm and heavy,
storm cloud wet,
crickets tucked
in high grass hush,
and the charged dark
waits to flash erupt.

In this steeping still
I live,
begging for
the sky to give,
for rain to lash
and thunder crash
to rattle bones
and stir
the wind.

Alas, the bowing
sky remains
ponderous
against my brain.
No storm today
or any day;
no sun will come,
and no breeze
will bray.

Just swelling gray
and gravity.
Only August
air for me.