Parched - Emily Brower

Amidst August’s falling fervor, I soak

My soul. Strained and damp air engulfs my ears.

Wayward musing this drenched heat does invoke,

As my mind recalls past watery years.

The salted surf, the late July raindrops,

The humid house with weather streaked windows,

The rings from perched glasses on tabletops,

The morning dew drenching the flowered rows.

Your damp curls encircling your neck’s warmed nape,

Your back soaked from a sweet seasonal sweat,

Your breath on clear panes from your mouth agape.

All the while I do dream to forget.

Though some say that water has created,

I only yearned to absorb after it evaporated.